


All That Was Me Is Gone

by BaronessEmma



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Adventure, Also plot, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Depression, Discussions of Past Trauma, Dissociation, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Family Feels, Flirting, Fluff, Future Fic, Future History, Future Tech, Healer!Jamie, Kissing, Like a Surprising Amount of Plot, Making Out, Mentions of PTSD, Pagan Rituals, Panic Attack, Prophetic Dreams, Romance, Snuggling, Survival, The Past Is The Future, Waking Dreams, culture clash, future culture, partial character swap, sexual innuendo, surreal visions, time travel fic, warrior!Claire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 175,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronessEmma/pseuds/BaronessEmma
Summary: The year is 2279. World War IV has only been over for six months. The past eight years have taken Claire Beauchamp's parents, her job, her home, her youth, and almost her will to live. Not to mention her husband, and their unborn child. All she has left is a dream, and a vague longing for trees, and groundplants, and stones that are older than the rusty metal streets of Skycity 15 - which its residents call New Oxford. When she unexpectedly gets a chance to visit her Uncle Lamb on Cold Island 12 - the fallout haven that used to be known as the Scottish Highlands - she decides to use the trip to try and climb out of the empty hole that is her current existence. But what she finds there will not only change her life, it will change history itself.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Frank Randall, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 720
Kudos: 295





	1. City In The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. I have TONS of other things I should be working on. But this idea. Would. Not. Leave. Me. Alone. So here we are. We'll see how far this goes.

**Part 1**

"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."

Albert Einstein is supposed to have said that.

I wish he had been right.

The setting sun peeks though the door-flap of my makeshift tent at the edge of town. It tints everything I own a warm, lovely orange, but I still go and pull the rough canvas more securely closed. Then, I put on my sleep-jacket and night-hood. It will be getting cold soon. I don't need beauty - I DO need warmth. I touch the anchor of the nuclear collector panel set I've put over the side, making sure it's secure. The polysteel rope snakes under one side of my little shelter - and the guy-ring it's bolted to sits right at the foot of my bedroll. If it comes loose, chances are the recoil will whip around before taking me, my tent, and all my meagre belongings with it. I'm too close to the edge of the City to survive that - our Safnet force shields are far from the best in the Fleet, and at the speed I'd be going, it's more than likely they wouldn't turn on before I'd be plummeting over 100 meters into the radioactive contaminant-laden ocean. And if the fall doesn't kill me instantly, or the RADs overwhelm me, survival time in north-Atlantic waters this time of year is less than four minutes - if you're lucky. And that's if the centimeter-thick wire rope whipping around happens to leave me alive in the first place. Which it wouldn't. My fingers brush the solid lock-knot, and grasp the heavy u-bolt holding it in place. They're both as secure as things get around here. After eight years of war, _nothing_ feels all that secure, actually, but there's nothing I can do about that. The winds will be rising soon, but there's nothing I can do about them, either. The anchor-rope is as steady as I can make it. Tonight, we'll be drifting over some of the most radioactive algal mats this sector of the Atlantic has to offer, and I don't want to miss out on the energy boost. I only have two collector panel sets left, after the fire eight months ago. . .

It had been a night raid - from Rogue City 5, that had been New Tallahassee, they said - and the shrieking Blueblasts woke every person aboard New Oxford. The tiny nuclear bombs were ear-splittingly loud, and they burned hot enough to melt titanium plating. But there were only four bombers, and their fighter-support was laughably sparse. They didn't end up getting much - my house and a half-dozen others, two farm plots, and a waste filter station is all. New Boston sent us backup even faster than expected. Three squadrons of Silverwings roared over from Skycity 28, and rescued us in fifteen minutes flat. Minimal losses overall.

Except for me and my neighbors, of course.

It had been the last raid of the war. At least as far as we in Skycity 15 were concerned. Two months later, the Coalition of Rogue Cities surrendered. And two weeks after that, there was a beautiful peace ceremony and everything, broadcast live from Skycity 2 - New Mumbai. There were doves involved, and lots of confetti. Or so everyone told me. I was too drunk at the time to move from my tent, and I had lost my personal info-screen in the fire. I hardly cared, then or now.

The casualties of war, you know.

Survival is all I care about these days. It has been for so long I barely know what security means anymore.

When it comes to that - survival - I suppose it's a good thing I live on New Oxford. We're one of the oldest Cities, and our power grids aren't the greatest, but, by sheer luck, our filter systems are top-notch. Somehow, we got special treatment in that regard back when first 50 Skycities were built. I doubt even their creators knew just how vital they'd be, but what it essentially means is this - New Oxford has the cleanest water this side of the African archipelago. We can take in twenty complete rafts of our big pod-tanks full of the worst contaminated seawater _a day_ , and in fifteen hours, not only is it potable, it's clear as a bell, cold, delicious, and doesn't even register on the RAD meter. Most Cities can only take in five full rafts of pods every _week_ \- and it takes them at least twenty four hours to process it, _and_ their end product isn't nearly as good. Our water is so perfect, we can use it as currency. It means we can support a population nearly three times the size of most other comparably sized Cities. It means we can decontaminate five times the usual amount of Hot Island salvage. It means we can grow _ten_ times the food. It also means that while we were a prime target during the war, it was as a target for _capture_ , not destruction. A little massive damage, of course, but not outright destruction.

All of those things tilted the balance in my favour for survival during the war.

But most importantly - and this was true before the war, and during it, and it is still true now - our water means that most of our people can avoid the more damaging radeformities for much longer.

Mostly. Usually. If you get lucky.

I sigh a little bit, and settle into my bedroll, spreading a few extra scraps of canvas over my feet before wrapping myself tightly in the wadded Wolyn blanket.

Frank hadn't gotten lucky, of course. And Little Frank _certainly_ hadn't. My husband had insisted on naming our tiny, pitifully malformed fetus, even though all he could see was a small patch on the sonogram. Just _looking_ at it was never going to tell him what sex it had been. Even our geneticist hadn't been entirely sure. Some of the samples she'd taken had shown Y chromosomes, and some hadn't, she said. After I'd recovered from the removal, we went back to her for details, and she told us, so very gently, of course, that there had been a problem at the spermatic level, but that my eggs were fine. Frank had said nothing then, but two weeks later, he had suggested that I find a donor, or even a lover, if I wanted - that me, and whatever child I chose to bear, would be enough for him. I'd blown up at him at the time, because I knew, even without asking the doctor, that it was the bombing raids that had caused it. He was foreman of Decon Team 7, the most decorated DC team in our township. He'd volunteered at the start of the war, and hadn't been off duty more than three days at a time ever since. Even with the best AR gel-padded suits available, his RAD exposure had skyrocketed. He knew it, I knew it, and our geneticist must have known it too. There simply was - and is - no other way a citizen of New Oxford would have encountered levels of radiation sufficient to cause such catastrophic birth defects. . .

An unexploded bomb on his next cleanup assignment vaporized Frank, three of his teammates, and seventeen centimeters of the nearby solid steel bulkhead wall.

I never got to apologize for yelling at him.

Oh well. Deaths from Blueblast bombs are nearly instantaneous, and almost certainly painless. At least he got to go quickly.

Unlike me. My heart has been dying by millimeters ever since then.

Of course, I _would_ have the luck to fall in love with a City sanitation technician. My parents hadn't approved. A daughter of the House of Beauchamp should aim higher than that, they said. Try to marry a Township official, maybe. Perhaps even the Mayor's son. But I had always gone my own way. I'd studied Historical Botany in school - one of the most useless degrees I could have taken, just short of Liberal Arts, or, worst of all, Marine Biology. Despite that, I'd managed to get a job in one of the lower Township's hydroponics laboratories, testing crops for root integrity. It was a dull job, but it paid the bills I refused to let my parents pay. I met Frank on one of my tea breaks, when I'd gone outside to get some fresh air. Back behind the lab, a young man was sweeping debris off the rusty alleyway floor. He gave me a look, and a half smile, and asked me out for a drink. A year and a half later, we were married. Three months after that, the CRC declared war on the Planetary Fleet of Sky Cities. I still wasn't clear on why - something to do with a feud between politicians on New Paris and traders on New Beijing, I think. Or maybe it was vice-versa.

It doesn't much matter. It's eight years later, and neither City exists anymore. The same can be said for fourteen other PF Cities, and to nine Rogue ones too.

That it also can be said about my life, hopes, family, and almost my sanity, is a completely predictable and totally inconsequential side effect of war. Or so I tell myself.

My parents only had about two years to hate Frank. Early on in the war New Oxford was blockaded for close to a month. There were at least two bombing raids a day - always hitting the residential areas, always avoiding the farming plots and water distribution stations. Several sheltering and evacuation schemes were tried, but cramming people into the farming buildings was ineffectual at best, and shifting half of our large population to the lower levels ended up taking twice as long as any single bombing raid, and was soon abandoned as a strategy. Eventually, whenever raid sirens went off, a lot of people chose to stay where they were, as an act of defiance.

Stupid? Maybe. But it seemed incredibly inspiring at the time.

My parents lived in Central Township, in the Spire itself, just two levels down from the Mayor's mansion.

By the end of the blockade, the entirety of Central Township had been reduced to twisted scrap metal. They even hit the main power distributor once - thirty levels into Core Township, right below Central.

My parents died two days after the blockade began.

All of us who stood to inherit by the damage - Central Township had been home to all of our richest families, after all - were asked to name the City itself as prime inheritor instead, and put all the resources into rebuilding.

At the time I was proud - no, I'm _still_ proud - that the ridiculous amount of money my parents had went to rebuilding our city. After all, I had Frank at the time, a job, and our house, and the hope of children. Nowadays, on nights this cold, with the jobs so scarce now all the soldiers are back, my home an ash pile, my family dead, and no hope for anything beyond my next meal, well. . . I wish I'd kept enough of my parents' ridiculous wealth to at least keep me from freezing to death while I sleep. . .

A slow, agonizing warmth spreads reluctantly around me, the synthetic wool of my bedroll holding in what little body heat I produce.

A bluish-green glow shimmers off the lowering clouds, and reflects through my small plastic window, brightening one side of my shelter with a sickly, eerie light.

We've reached the algal mats. I reach with a toe to reassure myself the anchor-rope for my energy collector is still secure. I can feel the vibration of the wind through the taut, twisted wire - keening, groaning gusts that threaten rain, or maybe even sleet.

The sharp, mournful sound of it sparks a note of sympathy from my heart, and it is this, for better or for worse, that lets me drift off to sleep.


	2. The Dream

_In the middle of the field, the air is still. The stones are cool white, and the light is soft and warm. The grass is a strange, rich, deep green, as though the Earth's blood itself went into its colouring. A sweet smell drifts slowly around me, fresh and earthen, dim, still, and ancient. It is the smell of stones, and plants, and the loam of good earthbound soil, dark with clean, cold water._

_It is the smell of land - land I've never seen._

_There is a mist in the distance, so I cannot see far, but the land rises up around me like the levels of a Skycity, only rounder and greener - softer, smoother. Hills, I think they are called. And the stones are steel-grey, cracked and worn and old. Nothing like the sharp, evenly-sized, pale beige drainage gravel which is the only rock I know._

_And away there - and there! - in the mist, fading off into nothingness, there are other things. Rustling, imposing things. Huge, even though they are a long ways away. . . though, not so long as that, now. They rise up before me, up and up. . . not nearly as tall as the Spire, but these things. . . are_ _**moving**_ _. They sway in the soft, sweet breeze like nothing I have even encountered before. A swishing, whispering, sighing, dancing, hoard of. . . of. . . A word drifts up from my long-ago school days, and falls from my lips in a horrified whisper._

_"Trees."_

_There are so many of them - they surround me. I try to shrink away, to run from them, but all at once I am among the great columns. They close in upon me, a fell multitude of giants, cold green and brown and black. The ground is now a blank, grey surface, and smells harder, colder, more menacing._

_What_ _**lives** _ _here?_

_The mist is nearer now, a wall of it in every direction, swirling, flowing, whirling round and round me like the eye of a storm. Through the trees it is all I can see - a pale, heavy fog that tingles against my skin and pricks in my nostrils. There is no way out - the trees go on forever. . ._

_Then, there is a chime of bells, very far off. I look straight up, and there, a single bright star sits in the middle of a circle of velvet black, even though the mist glows as if the sun is out. Another rushing, whispering sound whips past me in the mist, stirring it to a frenzy, and a smell of some wild flower I do not know breathes in my face._

_The mist curls up closer and closer to me - not grasping, which would be bad, but constricting, which is far worse. I look up again, desperately holding on to my one star as the walls of clammy cold close in. It winks and blinks and wavers with the mist - a great eye, unbound by time and space. For a moment I taste blood, and then I scream, and scream, and scream, but there is no sound, the mist has taken me._

I awake, not with a start, but with a sudden creepy feeling of being watched. The air is hard and stifling in my mouth. A distant growling roar sounds all around me.

A sudden stabbing flash of caustically bright white light slices across my vision, and a keening, shrieking howl deafens me.

I nearly cry out before I remind myself. Rain. Lightning. The wind over the algal mats often brings electric storms with it. There is nothing to be afraid of. A nightmare and a storm. Nothing more.

I sit up, carefully. Fat, icy droplets are crawling their way across my little window. There is a slapping sound as another sheet of water pelts my small shelter. I watch the tiny cold black shapes squirm across the plastic, thankful I have this protection, at least.

A faraway bolt of lightening flashes between the clouds, and for a moment, I think I see. . . something.

No.

Some _one_.

It is the merest glimpse, in the wavering uncertain light of a momentary flash of lightning.

But there was a man. I'll swear to it, even now.

A man. Tall, broad, his arms out in front of him, oblivious to wind, and rain, standing not ten feet away from my tent. The light flashes behind him again, and I swear, he was looking at me.

For a heart-clutching moment, I wonder if I am still dreaming.

Then the lightning flashes yet again, and there is nothing.

I decide it doesn't matter. If I am dreaming, or if I am not, I am going back to sleep.

Another long string of sharp white flashes and clapping rolls of thunder delay my rest for some minutes, but eventually, the rattling, shushing, tap-tap of rain takes hold, and I drift away again, this time sleeping until morning.


	3. Power Stuff Girl

It is a wet, pale, dreary morning. The clouds are thin, and high, as though last night's violence drove them away from the surface of the sea. They are enough to obscure the sun, though, and my short walk to the City's edge is grey, and cheerless. I stop a meter and a half from the sharp, rusty rim, and plunk down my electric winch next to the thin steel rope that disappears over the side. The vibration of this finally activates the Safnet field. I jump back about fifteen centimeters - I must have gotten too close again, and the buzzing electric shock of the repulsor shield takes me by surprise. Glittering reddish sparks shimmer in pulsing waves from the contact point, confirming that the Safnet is indeed working this morning. Sluggishly, as usual, but working. Slowly, I push the winch onto the rope, and activate its automatic function. With a soft _chunk_ it latches on to the wire, and begins to crawl along it, nearer and nearer to the force field. A special radio signal from the device parts the force field around it, and it creeps to the very edge, clamping itself to a large rivet-bolt there. The machine whirls, then growls, beginning to slowly reel up my energy collector-panel set.

I back up a step or two, put a scrap of oiled canvas over a reasonably flat, lightly rusted outcrop, and sit down to wait. I dig my hand into the deep pocket of my coat, and rattle the water-tokens there. I scoop them up, and draw them out.

There are only three. One half-liter, and two tenth-liters - round coins of stamped metal, shining on my palm. It's just enough to buy a good breakfast, and maybe a drink of tea later on. If none of my panels charged up, then I'm really in for it. No cooking my own meals. No bathing. I can wash my hands and face for free at the public toilets, of course, but I need this energy-haul to be worth it. . . I would like to eat again sometime within the next week, and my hair desperately needs a steam-rinse. Truth be told, I need a full steam-bath, and have for several weeks. I have thirty full-liter tokens back in my tent, but those are for renewing my salvage license - it's due in ten days, and that's only half of what I need. Not everyone is allowed to pull power right off the sea, after all. . .

My winch beeps loudly, signaling that the collector panels have reached the decon level. Ten or twenty meters down from the edge, hanging from the rim of the city, is an unbroken ring of AR gel vats. Anything brought in from over the side gets bathed in the thick, RAD-absorbing stuff, and then rinsed with high-powered jets of our best distilled water. In fact, the rope I've been winching up has gone though this same process too - it still shines with the damp residue of gel and water. But now the panels must be treated, and the spool rocks slightly as an unseen robot arm catches the rope, and lowers my panels into the nearest vat. A few moments later, the rope hums in time with the heavy, direct streams of water.

At last, the winch stops turning, and begins its slow crawl back up the steel rope to me. The panel set is gradually dragged into view. It is inelegant and bulky - a round steel plate with twelve mismatched rectangles of steel-framed radiation-energy collectors trailing from it - but every one of my panels comes from New Boston itself, Skycity 28 - far and away the best manufacturer of anything and everything silicate-based to be had in this hemisphere. Frank was somewhat more than mildly obsessed with energy salvage, and this isn't the first time I'm glad he was. His hobby is my livelihood now. . .

When everything is finally back though the Safnet, I unhook the panels, and sort them by size.

The smallest two are thick, 15 centimeter squares - so thick they are almost cubes. The dark brown silicon glows yellow with long-term slow-release energy. I'll keep them for charging my space-heater, and slow-powering my cooking pad and comm radio. They'll last me a month or two, if I'm careful.

The next smallest three are the slim, purple-glowing bars of specialty fast-charging panels. They're 60 centimeters long, but only 4 wide. Easy to stick into a skycar's charging port, or a home-generator's battery slot. These are the newest and best quality panels, and all three glow brightly - fully charged. I'll rent them to one of my Central Township customers for an afternoon - each one is worth twenty full-liter tokens, easy.

Maybe I'll be able to afford a full steam-bath after all. . .

The five middle-sized panels are a ragtag group of reddish-orange and pinkish-white glowing squares of various sizes, from 30 centimeters wide to 44 or so. General-use energy, for quick-powering comms and cookers, and everything else that runs on standard batteries. Street value - 30, maybe 35 full-liter tokens total, mostly in smaller change.

Which is nothing to scoff at, of course. I once paid my license fee in nothing but tenth- and fifth-liter tokens.

Cash is cash, and I'll take what I can get.

The real prize, though, are the two largest panels. They are the oldest ones, some of the first Frank ever bought, and they are slow, and worn, clunky and huge at a full 60 by 90 centimeters. But they glow an all-over deep blue-green. Fully charged, with pure industrial-grade energy. I can sell it to any farming or filter station for 40 full-liter tokens each. My contacts at GenTech in Core Township's research quarter might actually pay up to 50. Industry-grade panels are rare, and New Boston-made ones are very hard to come by, even old, hard-to-charge ones like these. I very rarely get a full charge on either, and almost never on both at the same time.

I bless the North Atlantic algal mats, and their legendary radioactivity.

Visions of brand-new tent canvas, an actually comfortable sleeping roll, and, heaven help me, _new clothes_ are dancing in my head as I slide each panel into their protective covers. The fast-charge-sticks and industry panels I'll sell tomorrow. I stow them and the two slow-charging cubes in Frank's father's old footlocker, and close and lock the hasp, before slinging the five midsize squares over my shoulder. Today, all I need is food, and a bath. North-3 Township Market is only a fifteen minute walk from here, and the nearest steamshower station is only two levels down and five streets over from there.

I start in to town, my step lighter and prospects better than they have been in months. For the moment, nightmares and strange fears have no place in me.


	4. Cost Of Living

"Charge your batteries! Power for sale! New Boston panels! 100% reliable! Power here! No credit, tokens only! Power for sale!"

I walk through the North-3 market, calling out the usual patter of the power salesman. Of course, I'm luckier than most - I can proudly show off the "28" that starts all the serial numbers etched onto my power panel frames. Proof positive they are all of genuine New Boston manufacture. Not every seller can do so quite as confidently. There's a flourishing trade in forging a 28 serial number, and chances are 50 to 1 a power panel claimed as New Boston make, is nothing of the kind.

Back when power salvage was just Frank's hobby, that sort of thing used to make me furious. But now, well. . . it's just people trying to survive, isn't it? Who am I to say they can't, or shouldn't?

In any case, I have a modest reputation in the field of power-vending now, and when I say I've got a New Boston panel, I mean it.

This early in the morning, most of my customers are working men and women looking to charge their hot-water kettles, and school-age children who need a quick-charge for their info-screens. Two or three Patrolmen stop me too, charging their Stunblaster pistols and making small talk. There is no one for gossip quite like a patrol-officer on their morning round. The byword is that if you punch a Patrolman in the nose, he has to go find someone to tell all about it before he can arrest you. A ridiculous exaggeration, of course, but they're all so amiable with me, I can almost believe it this morning.

I'm down to my final two panels for the day, when a small crowd of pale, ragged figures approach me.

Core-huggers. Homeless casualties of the war - just like me - only they are from the Lower Townships, and they scrounge a living begging and doing odd-jobs near the Core. North-3 market is several levels down, so seeing them here is not drastically unusual, but it's still a sight I don't often witness. They have washed-out, colourless bodies, dressed in drab-grey, patched clothing; their heads are covered with lank, bean-husk coloured hair; and their faces are set with pale, joyless eyes. They speak in the soft, mumbling dialect of the Core, and this group in particular murmurs in it quite unintelligibly until they apparently select a representative. He sidles over next to me and points at my power panels. I nod, and lift one up to a nearby empty market-table. He hands me a heaped palmful of tenth-, fifth- and half-liter tokens, and proceeds to charge up a seemingly endless supply of hand-torches.

I shudder. They probably can't afford the healthier full-spectrum houselamps - and if they've come all the way up here to charge their torches, then chances are this group has been living mostly in the dark. There are still large sections of several Townships without general power, and a home-generator is probably far beyond the means of these people.

I've always lived in a surface Township, even when I worked in Lower South-5. And even now, camping on the Rim, scraping a living from power salvage, I have to believe I've got it infinitely better than Core-huggers. At least I see the sun, and get fresh air.

My life is just hard. It isn't spent literally in the dark.

Of course, they can come up to the surface whenever they want - there's nothing _forcing_ these people to live without fresh air or real light. . .

Except, you know, the need to eat. There is nothing forcing them to stay in the Lower Townships just like there is nothing keeping me out of GenTech's seed library all day.

That's the insidious thing about poverty - to fight it, you must wallow in it. These people must stay where there is work, and a chance of survival. Time off to go visit the sun must hardly ever come their way.

My fingers close around the handful of tokens. My total earnings are a little over 20 full-liter tokens so far today, not counting these. Not a great profit, considering, but adequate. He finishes charging up the torches, and I heft the now empty panel to my shoulder again.

"Wait there," I tell him. I'm walking my route back and forth near the Power and Tech section of the market, and a battery vendor isn't hard to find. I haggle him down as hard as I can, and eventually I get eighteen standard power cells for the handful of tokens - which end up totaling 3 and 7 tenths-liters. It's a good bargain anywhere.

The man's eyes light up when I hand him the power cells, and he mumbles what I assume is thanks in my direction.

"Don't mention it," I say, mustering a smile from somewhere, "Good luck."

He jerks a nod at me, and the whole group fades back into the catacombs of our Skycity.

I hang around for another half-hour, selling most of my last panel to a group of schoolboys charging their hover-scooters, and the final three charges go to a trio of waitresses on break with their e-cigs.

When I leave the market, my total earnings are 29 and 3. Not a bad morning's work at all. At least it will keep me from starving or stinking until I can pay up my license fee.

I'm ravenous by this point, but I still pause at a water distribution station on my way to the nearest caf. This particular station is a big one - two meters wide, and three tall - almost touching the ceiling. The banks of water coves ring the structure at three heights - 50, 100, and 150 centimeters - meaning anyone, of any height, has access to drinking water, hot or cold.

If you have the coin, that is.

I put in two tenth-liter tokens in the nearest middle-cove, rather than one, paying the extra fee for a hot drink. The device pushes out a small steel teacup, hot and sterile from its steam bath. I take it and hold it under the spigot, and a moment later, piping hot tea floods my cup. Exactly one tenth of a liter. I inhale the fragrant steam, and sip it gratefully. It has been over a week since I could afford a hot drink. The cold remnants from every brew are sold as cheaply as plain water, so I seldom denied myself a stimulant, but I have always despised cold tea, even when I had the coin to afford milk and sugar with every cup.

There was a time when my cold tea got poured away down the drain.

I shake my head, and take another sip. Never, never again.

And my parents had been so ridiculously wealthy, they had often had lemons with their tea. Lemons! Every farming station grows them, of course, as well as rosehips, so they can add the required levels of Vitamin C to their ration packs. But each tiny, stunted bush only produces a very few perfect specimens a year. Nearly all of these are sold in Central Township as a luxury food. I've seen them at Central Market, round, golden, fragrant fruits, piled in lumpen pyramids like some dragon's treasure, and priced at the low-low cost of seventy full-liter tokens _each_. A standard worker would have to labour a month just to afford one. And yet, as a child I remember regularly having candied lemon peel, tiny lemon tarts dusted with sugar, and sweet cakes spread with whipped cream and lemon curd at nearly every tea party. The fact that I know what a lemon-meringue pie even _is_ just goes to show you, doesn't it?

Lemons. Eggs. Sugar. Oil. Flour.

All things only the richest among us can regularly afford to eat.

To tell the truth, I prefer this public distribution station, and my plain, black tea.

I swallow the last of my precious tenth-liter, put the metal cup in the "Return" slot, and then duck in to the nearest caf. They might only sell the exact same thing you can buy slightly more cheaply direct from a farming station - nutrient-balanced, plant-based, protein-and-carb ration packs, and single-servings of the standard small chunks of shelf-stable processed chicken meat - but at least a caf will heat it for you, and arrange it so it looks like _food_ on your plate, not someone's three-day-old sick.

This close to the market, the caf is packed with morning labourers - some peddlers like me, and a sprinkling of businessmen and schoolchildren, but mostly, there are a lot of farm-station workers, and a _lot_ of farm-technicians.

I hand the nearest waitress a half-liter coin, and ask for a hot-breakfast plate. I slip in past the crowd of men and women waiting for their orders, and find one seat left at the end of the caf-counter. After the morning I've had, I breathe a sigh of relief. It may seem odd to some, but there are few places I feel safer than in a public caf, filled with farm-workers, on the morning of a standard work-day. The sense of community is palpable. It's a feeling of shared burdens, and equality of purpose. I love it.

I eat absent-mindedly, my thoughts already on my planned steam-bath before I go back up to my salvage camp on the Rim. The inner pocket of my coat is bulging with tokens - if a woman is in charge at the bath-house I might even be able to afford a laundry day. My trousers and tunic could use a good steam-clean, and my undergarments have desperately needed the same for over two weeks now.

Practically floating on the feeling of a warm, full stomach, I make my way down to the steamshower station. A woman _is_ in charge this morning, and so I trust her with my clothes, boots and coat. I detach my coat's inner pocket, and put it and my empty power panels in one of the metal lockboxes lining the wall behind her. She comes over to hand me the key for it, and promises to give my clothes a complete dry-steam clean by the time I'm done with my bath. I give her an extra fifth-liter token and ask her to take special care with my underclothes. She smiles indulgently at me.

"Naw prob, luv," she says in her pleasant North-3 drawl.

The steam shower is entirely wonderful. The dried sweat, oil and dead skin practically _shed_ off me as the jets of hot, atomized water rake my skin from every angle. Rust and dirt soak out of my hair and from under my fingernails. Foamed lotion-soap covers me for a moment, before being rinsed away by the next deluge of steam. I paid for three rounds of soap today, just because I could. I raise my arms, letting it get everywhere. Utter, utter bliss. These small, private stalls are orders of magnitude better than the large, communal shower I passed across the hall. At least they are to me. And it only costs a tenth-token more to obtain this small bit of privacy. But, as usual, the loud chaffing and cackling audible from the communal stall puts the lie to this opinion. For reasons I have never understood, some people like bathing in public. Perhaps it is my Central Township upbringing, but I simply cannot. All genders are welcome in communal stalls, and all it takes is one less-than-polite patron to drastically dampen the experience for all involved. Pun very much intended.

Oh well. I rub the last deluge of foam into my hair for a minute before letting the steam rinse it all away. It takes all kinds to make a world.

I open the rear door of my cubicle, and enter the drying-stall. A section of the metal halfway up the wall has been polished into a mirror, and a plastic brush and comb hang from a plastic chain bolted next to it. It takes until long after my skin is fully dry to get all the tangles out of my hair. But when I am done, I fluff my wavy curls in the dry, warm air, and tie it back with the braided cord-bracelet Frank gave me on our second date.

The laundress-attendant meets me at the end of the long row of drying-stalls, and hands me my warm and fluffy newly-clean clothes. The sensation of pristine undergarments and a soft, still-warm tunic make me practically purr with content. She even mended the long tear in my trouser leg without me asking her. I try to offer her another half-liter token in thanks - after all, thread isn't cheap - but she waves my offer away with a good-natured, "Naw luv, feed yersel up a titch, hey?"

I suppose the sight of my scrawny arms and prominent ribs told her exactly how often I can afford the luxury of laundry and a bath.

She isn't wrong, either. I haven't been eating as much as I should. And not just because I can't always afford food.

I sigh. Depression. . . is a bitch. And the survivor's guilt sure doesn't help.

I give her the widest smile I can muster, collect my things from the lockbox, and start off on the long walk to South-1. I desperately need provisions, and there is a farming-station there that gives me a special rate on ration packs if I tweak their crop-regulator to overcharge on starches for a week. I can't modify the machine permanently, since that would be noticed, but an extra sack or two of potatoes every day for a week can easily slip through the cracks. That many can earn me 30 or 40 tokens on the black market, even after splitting the profits with the harvesters. A particularly good haul can be worth 50 or 60 tokens if you happen to have good contacts with the 'tillers. Which I do. My nearest neighbor on the Rim runs a distilling concern, and his vodka is justifiably legendary. He could even work for Central Brewery if he wanted to - but he earns just as much, if not more, being a 'tiller. "An' me time's me own," he told me one day, after I'd asked him why an artist like him stayed out on the Rim. He pays top-coin for good potatoes, and he knows I only deliver the best.

But it's a very long walk to South-1, and my empty power panels are heavy. Halfway through East-4, I'm dragging my feet, barely aware of my surroundings. Deliberately, I count how many tokens I have left, figuring out if I can afford another cup of hot tea today, or if I must wait until tomorrow.

I've just decided I'm going to go ahead and splurge today, and hang the consequences, when I look up and see. . . the most normal thing imaginable.

It's a small salvage-shop, nestled 12 or 15 levels down here in East-4, the exact twin of any number of salvage shops you can find in any Township. Decontaminated Hot Island salvage is as common as rust. But still, something in the window of this one catches my eye.

It's a vase. Round and smooth-glazed ceramic, formed in a graceful classic curve, with a little lip. I can imagine a bundle of fruiting roses, or a clump of miniature-apple blossoms sitting in it, as it stands on a white-polished mantle over an elegant little electric-stove.

I shake my head. Ridiculous.

The vase is hideous - grotesquely pink daisies painted over a swirled background of too-vivid green and yellow. . . but, suddenly, I want it. I want it, and all its ugly normalcy. A scrap of salvage to represent the scraps of my life I've managed to salvage from this war.

But I don't have anywhere to put it, nor any flowers to put in it. What good is a vase to me?

And the little tag next to it says it costs 4 and 2.

Slowly, I turn away, and continue on my walk to South-1.

I still wonder, even now, what would have happened if I had bought it. Hang the consequences and taken it back to my tent, to sit unused in my father-in-law's old footlocker, gathering dust as I gathered RADs on Frank's power-panels?

Would it have changed nothing? Or everything?

Or, would it have. . .

But there.

I'm getting ahead of myself.


	5. Last Resort

My bouts of depression always seem to hit harder after I've had a string of good luck.

For nearly two weeks, things had gone fairly well. With my energy windfall, I paid up my salvage license, bought some new bedding, stored up some food and power supplies for the approaching winter, got a cheap insulation cover for my tent, a good overcoat, new boots, good gloves, and even managed at least one meal and one hot drink every day. When I recall those two weeks now, I cannot remember any sense of foreboding, nor any feeling that it was the calm before the storm.

It was almost as if the storm had already begun, and I had simply failed to notice it.

Indeed, the only even slightly negative thing that happened to me for a fortnight, was an almost nightly recurrence of that strange nightmare, with trees and fog and grassy hills, and one lone star staring at me from far away.

And the strangest part was that, by the end of the time, it had almost ceased to be a nightmare. The mist and trees and stones I did not know - almost, they had become my friends. I very nearly looked forward to seeing them every night now. Even the star slowly became a beacon trying to guide me home.

The sight and smell of it all, even if it was only a dream, had filled some part me I didn't know was empty. Some primal part of my Human brain that wanted earth and forest, herb and stone, warm, full breezes, and cool, rushing rivers.

I tried to push away the longing of it, and how lonely, how desperately lonely I felt, had felt, ever since Frank had died.

For fifteen days, I put my panel sets out every night, and with good luck and hard work, managed to save up a few extra tokens for a rainy day.

"Rain" comes on day sixteen, which, ironically, happens to be the sunniest morning we've had in over a month.

I wake up, and immediately hate everything. The world, myself, the wind, the sun - everything. I decide not to get out of bed.

That's my first mistake.

Purely black moods don't overtake me all that often - usually, when I spiral downwards, I go kicking and screaming, snide and snippy and snarky and sardonic. Undiluted surrender isn't normally my style - I like some humor with my gallows. But this time, there's just. . . nothing. I'm empty. The hoard has come for me, and I have no reserves of strength to fight it.

For three days, I don't eat. I don't leave my tent. I barely move from my bedroll. When I sleep, I don't dream. Mostly, I just stare at nothing. I have a few bottles of water in my tent now, and warmer bedding, so I manage to stay alive, but I've lost sight of anything I'm working towards - if there ever was anything to begin with. I convince myself there wasn't.

That's my second mistake.

On the fourth day, I wake up with the inevitable fever and chills. I've known it was coming for days now, but couldn't bring myself to care - a low immune system, no sun, lack of nutrients, cold draughts. . . I've got the 'flu.

I suffer through it for two days. Only a Health Inspector making rounds of the Rim camps makes me go see a doctor, and even then, I drag my feet for another twenty-six hours.

That's my third mistake.

People with Inspector's orders to see a doctor must report within twenty-four hours, or their case is bumped up in urgency. Instead of a safe, random doctor from North-3, I have to go see my family's old GP, Dr. Woolsey.

Not that there's anything wrong with him, of course, save that he knows everything about me, my family, and my history.

There's no hiding my condition from him - mental or physical - no waffling, no stonewalling, no faking it.

So I don't try.

That's my fourth mistake.

"Now, I know you're not going to like this, Claire," he says, after his examination, "But I am going to recommend you for special quarantine."

" _Special_ qua. . . quarantine?" I croak, my throat gravelly and sore, "What's that?"

"Well. . ." he pauses, and looks at me sidelong. "It will go through the Central Committee much more quickly if I call it a petition for you to visit your Uncle Quentin."

"Lamb?" I almost growl, confused, "Why would I visit him?"

"You wouldn't, clearly," he says, not without some mild censure, "But I'm sending you to Cold Island 12, and that's final."

Cold Island 12? That's where all the Skycities of the Atlantic send their mental cases, their soldiers with PTSD, their terminally ill and hopelessly senile. It's essentially our loony bin. Uncle Lamb was sent there ages ago, for trying to "excavate a pyramid" on New Reykjavík. Really, he just filled his rooms with trash, and slowly sifted though it until he found the furniture again. Uncle Lamb? More like black sheep. My parents used to threaten me with a visit to him to get me to do my homework or clean my room.

"But. . . why?" I'm depressed, yes, not crazy. Not yet, anyway.

"Because it's a change of scene. And you need one."

I vehemently disagree. But I'm too tired to fight, so I don't.

That's my worst mistake.


	6. Sick Leave

Dr. Woolsey is right - the petition he sends to the Council comes back approved in less than two days. A visitation request bundled with a quarantine warning, both with a noted Central doctor's endorsement, must have been quick-lined right to the mayor himself. Certainly, the Passport card I get looks very official - lots of fancy stamps and seals and signatures all over it. Coupled with the equally official-looking Order of Quarantine Dr. Woolsey gave me, there's no way I'm getting out of this. I'm doomed to spend the next three months in the company of my crazy uncle. My things are going to be packed up and stored, my power panels rented by Core Salvage, and I am going to be shipped off with the next cargo run.

Which isn't for another week, so until then I have to sit here and do nothing. On doctor's orders.

The only good part about it is he also gave me a 7-day Doctor's Ticket - meaning I get an all-day heating pad, three single-use packets of menthol salve, ten mint lozenges, a ration of corn bread, two liters of hot chicken soup, two of hot tea, a fifth of spiced rum, and a tenth of lemon syrup, for free, _each day_. I also get a daily free trip to the nearest steamshower station, with tokens enough for a full twenty minutes in the hot steam. I wish to every deity that may or may not exist that I wasn't actually sick, because Doctor's Tickets can go for _hundreds_ of tokens on the black market. There are usually a few dozen forged ones floating around that no one wants to take a chance on, but mine is tauntingly real. A palm-sized translucent orange plastic card, with a shimmering little computer chip embedded in the center of it, like an insect trapped in amber. A genuine 7-day Ticket from a Central doctor. Sold to the proper black marketeer, it could bathe and feed me for a _year_ , easy. And probably clothe and house me too. The lemon syrup alone is worth 20 or 30 tokens per tenth-liter to a good 'tiller. From day one I can't bring myself to take more than a spoonful of the stuff - it feels too much like I'm wasting a precious resource.

Which, really, I am.

So I pour my daily ration into a capped steel bottle that once belonged to my mother. The outside is enameled all over with colourful vines and flowers - I think it's beautiful, though the enamel is quite worn and chipped now. It's my only relic from her, so I treasure it. By day 5, it's nearly three quarters full. I pour a measure of my hot tea into the latest syrup-cup, dissolving the last dregs of the tangy sweetness. The quarantine order means I can only leave my tent to go to the public toilets, or the steamshower station. Most annoyingly, Dr. Woolsey has made sure there's a day-nurse on duty - she's sitting out there right now, under a portable heat-pavilion less than ten meters away, so I have no way to sneak out. I'm still too weak to try and sneak out at night. There's no chance for me to find a good 'tiller to sell all this syrup to - I'll just have to take it to Cold Island 12 with me.

I manage a small smile at my own absurdity. I'm a power-salvage peddler, camping on the Rim of Skycity 15. I don't have a house. I don't have family. I almost don't have friends. I very nearly don't have clothes. I don't have much of anything, except regret. I just barely make do, and often go hungry. I'm a casualty of WWIV, and my story is hardly a rare one. Was there anyone less likely to have an expedited Passport card to a Cold Island, a lavish 7-day Doctor's-rations ticket while she waits for what amounts to her personal transport to take her there, and bottle full of lemon syrup to keep her company until then?

If I'm being honest with myself, I can hardly believe it, and I'm the one it's happening to.

I smirk as I take a small sip from my fifth-liter flask of spiced rum. Consuming this particular luxury does _not_ feel like a waste, oddly enough, and I've drunk my full ration every day. Normally we only have alcohol on special occasions. Ordinary people can only afford it once in a while, and even the very rich generally prefer to sell most of their liquor shares rather than drink them. This being so, the majority of our official product goes to other Skycities. We're the biggest single food producer in the Atlantic, so that's hardly a surprise, really. But we have a flourishing fraternity of bootleg 'tillers for a _reason_ , is all I'm saying. And anyone who deals on the black market as often as I do nowadays, can hardly help forming contacts with them. This means I am one of the few ordinary folk around here who is more than a little familiar with the term "hair of the dog".

Not that I've ever seen a dog, mind you. But I know what the idiom means.

By day 6, I'm utterly disgusted with sitting idly about, without worries, but without joy either, doing nothing but eating, drinking, and thinking about my impending removal from the only home I've ever known. My fever is better, and my throat is almost normal. I still have a nagging cough, and an ache in my joints, and my nose is still stuffy and gross, but I'm leagues better than I was.

Briefly, I consider asking Dr. Woolsey if I'm well enough to stay, but I quickly dismiss the idea. He made it clear that this was not about my having the 'flu.

I roll over restlessly on my bedroll, trying to get back into the blessedly blank nihilism of my depression, but something about the thought of leaving Skycity 15 has me relentlessly keyed-up.

It's not like I've never traveled before, either. I've visited other Skycities - New São Paulo, New Calais, New Reykjavík, New Toronto, and New St. John's, primarily. I've gone skysurfing with a cloudcar, I've been to Oktoberfest on New Munich, and New Year's on New Osaka. I've seen the Southern Cross, and the Northern Lights reflected in the green glowing sea. I've even suited up and gone salvaging on a Hot Island or two. But I've never even been near a Cold Island. I have no idea what to expect. Well, I have a _little_ bit of an idea, but not much. Hot Islands are grey, or brown, or sickly green and ashen-pale. Hot with fallout, and covered in toxic dust, they are subject to paradoxically freezing winds that has stripped most of them of their topsoil. There are no plants, no animals, no insects - not even bacteria survived on many of them. Only black or glowing pale green stones, burnt stumps of trees, and a few tumbledown buildings remain - the remnants of Human occupancy. Everything about a Hot Island is dead - or very nearly so.

I know this much - Cold Islands are the exact opposite. They are havens for life. Plants, birds, mammals, insects, even fish survive on and around them. They are the few places left on the Earth's surface without toxic levels of radiation, and they aren't particularly cold unless the season or geography says they should be. There are several in the South Pacific, in fact. They aren't necessarily true islands either - Cold Island 3 is a small clump of mountains in what used to be Mongolia, hundreds of kilometers from even the risen ocean. It just happens to be surrounded by vast numbers of contaminated mountains, hence, we call it an island. Cold Islands 17-22 are in what remains of North America's Rocky Mountains, and several portions of them are contaminated too. But plants and people can survive there, so they are Cold Islands.

Cold Island 12 is what used to be the Scottish Highlands. I know it will be green. A strange, deep, living green, totally different than the eerie, wavering, bluish-pale glow of the algal mats, or the acid, sickly green of the ocean's surface. I assume it will have plants, and birds, and rich, wet soil, and high, grey stones.

I wonder if it is the place I have been dreaming of. If it is, I wonder how I knew all that to dream it.

On the morning of day 7, two storage-movers show up, and very politely ask me to gather what belongings I will be taking with me, so they can pack up the rest. I do so easily. My comm radio, my passport, a small bag holding extra food and my few extra clothes. That's all.

A minor clerk from Core Salvage appears a few minutes later, and then at least a quarter of an hour is taken up with reading and signing documents. When we're finally done, he goes back to Core Township, and takes my power panels with him. The rent agreement is a fair one, I couldn't ask for a better deal, but it's still a wrench to see my last eight months' livelihood carried off by someone else.

While I'm still looking mournfully after him, the two movers have the rest of my belongings packed neatly into a crate. A half-crate. Like I said, I don't have much of anything except regret.

"All done, Miss," says the elder-looking one, kindly, "Could you sign 'ere, please?" He hands me a record-board. I scribble my signature, and press my thumbprint where it indicates.

"Thanks, Miss," says the younger one, cheerfully, "'Ere you go." He hands me a claims receipt, and a keycard. Then he flips up the side of the half-crate, and locks it with a snap.

I jump at the sound, almost as if I was inside the box, not outside it.

"Never you fear, Lady," says the older one, "Ever since them bombs stopped, we hain't lost a crate yet."

I half-smile. "Oh, I wasn't afraid of that."

Whether they believe me or not, I don't notice, for as they go off in the direction of Central Storage, my cargo ship glides out of the sky, a gleaming, gunmetal-grey, busily humming piece of flying technology, and far bigger than I expected.

I shake my head at myself. Of course it's big. It _is_ a cargo ship, after all. . .

Slowly, it docks at the North-3 port. I'm a good ways off, but I can still hear the echoing _whoosh-_ _clang_ as the airlock engages.

I pick up my bag, and begin slowly making my way towards North-3, not knowing if I am walking towards my doom, or away from it.

Either way, I decide I will face it, if not cheerfully, then at least with conviction.

My future is out there, waiting for me, and I am going to take it.


	7. Island Welcome

We have to visit several Skycities before we get to Cold Island 12. The Skyforts of New York, New Belfast, and New Bangor One and Two all rely on us for water and food, as does their Sector Control City, New Cardiff. These are all smaller, newer Skycities, heavily armed, and made to be especially maneuverable, but they are only partially self-sufficient. They can all make plentiful weaponry and munitions, of course, but such manufacturing takes up space, and there is little room left on them for farming stations and water filter vats. All except New Cardiff were built during the war, specifically to protect this northwesterly approach to Cold Island 12, since, while most of the north Atlantic had been in the attack range of the Rogue City base in Tasiilaq Bay, essentially the only thing worth fighting for around here was access to a Cold Island. Thus was formed the NASS Contingent. The North Atlantic Skycity Squadron, and its mission was to protect Cold Island 12, at all costs. Skycity 15 had been a proud member since the very beginning of the war, and because several thousand people live on them, these five Fort-class Cities are still under our wartime rations agreement.

A quiet Export Technician shows me to my small stateroom. My Quarantine order means I qualify for a private berth. By the looks of things, there are only three such rooms on this particular ship, tucked away into the bit of wasted space between the superstructure base and the communications tower. They've given me the only stateroom with an exterior view. The whole area is only a few levels up from the round belly of the cargo holds, though, and the porthole is tiny, so I cannot see much of the sea on this bright, glaring morning, but that is all right. I see this particular stretch of ocean nearly every month anyhow - New Oxford's flight route is fairly standardized.

I decide to relax while the cargo ship makes its rounds.

I throw my bag onto the long bench that lines one side of the room, and flop luxuriously onto the soft cot across from it. There is a large info-screen on the short wall across from the foot of the bed, and a door in the opposite short wall that I assume leads to a private toilet. The info-screen is already activated, showing a live-update map of our current position, and the position of anything else of interest near us. At the moment, Skycity 15 is the only thing on the screen.

I sigh, and let myself drift.

I must sleep, for the next thing I know, a PA system is pinging insistently at me.

*ding ding* "This is the Captain speaking. We are approaching Cold Island Airspace. Please turn off all comm-radios and personal info-screens as we prepare to pass the Safnet Screen Line." *ding ding* "Will all passengers please find your landing seats and engage your restraint systems. Thank you." *ding ding* "Approaching Cold Island Airspace. Please find your landing seats." *ding ding*

I sit up, groggily, and look around again. One end of the long bench is equipped with a padded, cord-and-net restraint system. I half-stumble over to it and strap myself in almost by instinct. I'm far from comfortable, but if I twist my neck a little, a can see out of the porthole fairly easily from here. I can't see the Safnet screen yet, but we're probably still too far away. And I'll probably be at the wrong angle to see it when we get there anyway. . .

All Cold Islands are protected by a Land-Grade Safnet system. Unlike the small protective nets we have around the edges of Skycities, these project huge domes of nearly impenetrable force-screens. They're partially-osmotic, meaning air and some water can get through, but very little else can. The nets are strong enough to repel large icebergs, and they extend all the way to the seafloor. Only special signals allow for openings in very specific areas.

A yellow warning light flashes underneath the info-screen, meaning that live-updates have been temporarily turned off so the ship can broadcast the necessary radio signal unimpeded. The ship rocks, and shudders uncomfortably as it banks into its proper approach.

As the ship turns and my side lowers, I can see the edge of the Safnet, and for the first time in my life, I see a wide expanse of clean, uncontaminated ocean.

My jaw drops.

The ship evens out, but rocks some more as it pushes through the relaxed force-screen. I do not notice. From horizon to horizon, there is only the deepest, clearest blue surrounding us, like an enormous, living sapphire, rolling and lapping away far down below. Swathes of a colder ultramarine run like veins though the body of the water, rich and impossible, like Stygian Blue.

For the first time, I understand the phrase from Homer, _"The wine-dark sea."_

But the colour isn't what shocks me, not entirely, though I wasn't expecting it. No, what's surprising is _where we are_. According to the info-screen on the wall, we just passed Hot Island 529 - what used to be the Faroe Islands - two hundred or so kilometers to the East of us. We're still three or four _hundred_ kilometers away from the Docking Station at Upper Inverness, still smack dab in the middle of the open ocean.

This is at least double, and probably closer to quadruple, the reported amount of reclaimed sea surrounding Cold Island 12.

I'm not shocked that this isn't common knowledge. I'm shocked that they've managed to do it at all.

Safnet shields only block radiation - they cannot filter it. Antinuclear Reactive gel is the only substance known that can effectively filter radioactive particulates from fluids.

I know this. And yet, for a moment, I wonder. . .

To have reclaimed so much open ocean, to the point that the colour changes so drastically, would take. . . would take. . .

I don't even _know_ what that would take. More AR gel per year than is currently produced annually worldwide, certainly. More labour than the approximately 3 million people who live on Cold Island 12 could provide, for sure. More power consumed by the Safnet screens than the land-based generators can produce, I think. And technology I had no idea even exists and can't possibly imagine, absolutely.

My heart rate increases, and for a moment I lose my breath.

If they can do this _here_ , does that mean there is some hope for the rest of our planet?

I've never _dreamed_ \- never even let myself _imagine_. . .

I turn my face away from the porthole. It's too much to take in.

But I can't keep my eyes away for long - the blue of the clean sea draws my gaze like nothing ever has before. I never knew a colour could draw out your soul with longing, and call to you across space.

I stare at it with a hunger I didn't know existed, and I cannot get enough.

The rest of the trip into Inverness Docking Station is uneventful.

If by uneventful you mean spectacularly, devastatingly beautiful, of course.

Eventually, the blue of the sea fades away behind us, and the greens, browns and greys of habitable land rise up instead. It too is veined and dotted with blue. Lakes. Rivers. Clean, good water flowing over and soaking into dark, sweet land. Slowly, we descend from the sky, and the air becomes warmer, and thicker, and rich with action and light.

I think I even see a bird.

I know what birds look like from pictures, of course, but as the ocean has showed, the real thing is incredibly different from pictures. . .

Our speed falls to almost nothing, and we come to a surprisingly delicate stop. A deep _clang_ reverberates through the whole ship. Airlock engaged.

Slowly, I untangle myself from the restraint nets, and sling my bag over my shoulder. Suddenly it seems an alarmingly meagre set of resources with which to face an entire unknown world. I might be used to _having_ nearly nothing, but being in a place where I _know_ nearly nothing is an entirely new sensation.

I don't think I like it, but I don't know how I _do_ feel about it, either.

It is a long lift ride down from the Docking Station. Then the doors open up into Inverness Port, and I'm out in the wide, active world again.

The air smells like nothing I've ever imagined or dreamed of. Even now, I can't describe it, it was so _full_.

As I stand there, struck dumb by the lungfuls of life-laden air I'm greedily drawing into myself, a vehicle very like a skycar, only with wheels instead of airfoils, rolls up, and from the front seat, a smiling man in plain brown livery speaks to me.

"Ye'll be the lass from New Oxford, then?"

His voice is cheerful, and his accent is charming. I nod, more curtly than I mean to.

He doesn't seem to notice, but jumps out of the car, and throws open one of the back doors for me.

"Weel then, git in, lass. Yer Uncle sent me for ye. Hop in and we'll be there in time for tea."

Tea, at least, I understand.

As I turn to get in, some nearby children begin swinging a rope, long-ways, side to side. First one, then two of them, start to jump over it as it swings.

The two doing the swinging begin to chant -

"Hey Nonny Nonny,  
The Rowan-tree is bonny,  
The Mountains are under the Spoon,  
The Devil's Eye flashed,  
To see such s'port,  
And the Witches dance under the Moon."

I've heard children singing such nonsense poems before, of course, but this one, I always thought, was about a cat and a cow, and ended with something about a dish and a spoon. . .

What are they singing about?

I don't have time to find out.

The nice man in livery closes the door behind me, then swings the car around, and we're off, up into the hills.

The rest of the ride is a blur of one beauty after another, trees and houses, plants and stones and people and roads, colour and sound and air.

I have never been a poet, and never wished to be, but during that drive, my soul sings the songs of ancient bards, melodies unwrit and unlearned, yet real nonetheless, timeless and free.

Eventually, we stop at a large house that is a ways beyond the end of a long row of shops and cottages. There are trees and bushes in the yard, and the whole place is so lovely I'm almost afraid to sully it with my presence. But the driver leaps out of the car, and throws my door open again, with such a hearty "Heer we are then, Lassie!", that I can't help but smile back, clutch my bag over my shoulder, and follow him into the house.

I've never seen a house like this, either. There's wood everywhere - paneling, floors, railings, furniture. The richest among us on the Skycities might have a wooden ornament or two, but nothing near to this.

The house might as well be made from solid gold.

The driver leaves me in the hall, and a smiling woman with grey hair greets me there.

"Come with me, dear, he's waiting for you in the library," she says gently, and leads me off down a long hallway.

I have been so impressed with the sight and smells of this new place, I've forgotten to be nervous about meeting Uncle Lamb. All of the anxiety slams into me now.

He's mad. Insane. He was sent here because of it.

What on Earth am I going to do?

The grey-haired woman escorts me into a room where the walls are covered with what I later learn are books. Apparently, they used to be made of wood pulp.

But now, they are so much uninteresting background, because in this room, I will have to face my uncle. . .

A tall and elegantly dressed gentleman rises from the desk near the window, and advances to me, a delighted and eminently sane expression on his face.

"Ah, here you are, my dear. Got here safely, I see." He pats my shoulder and gives me a dry peck on the cheek. "I'll tell Mrs. Graham to take your bag up to your rooms."

I consciously unclench my fingers from around my bag's shoulder strap, my paradigms shifting so much and so rapidly that I'm liable to be swallowed by the avalanche of them.

"Th-thank you, Uncle Lamb," I manage, somewhat faintly.

He grips me gently by both shoulders, and looks down at me happily.

"I'm very glad you're here, Claire," he says, sincerely, softly patting my cheek. Then he walks to the door and calls the woman back.

Mrs. Graham takes my bag from me, and in a daze I follow her up to the rooms allotted for me. A minute later, I am sitting on the edge of a giant four-poster bed, looking bewilderedly at the pale blonde paneling that lines the room.

Nothing, _nothing_ , is like I thought it was. Not Uncle Lamb, not Cold Island 12, not me, not the world itself.

I wonder what it means to be mad, in a world gone sane.


	8. Redux

Eventually, I shake myself from my stupor. There is a bowl and pitcher in one corner of the room, with a clean cloth laid next to them. I make a guess that this is how basic sanitation works here, and I turn out to be right.

I wash a little bit more thoroughly than I need to, not knowing if they have a private steamshower here or not. I hope they do - I can see myself spending the majority of my time here outdoors. Among all those plants and soil and stones. . .

I draw a deep breath. Indoors the air isn't nearly so shockingly fresh, but there is still a tang of fullness to it - a savour of blooming fungus and the mould of leaves, mingled with a million things I've never smelled before. I yearn to be outside again, surrounded by things I've only read about. My fingers itch to explore, to sort pebbles and sketch leaves, to see tree bark, and flowers, and herbs, and fruit, and mushrooms, and even insects. Do they have rodents around here, I wonder? Amphibians? Snakes? Fish? Mammals? After the expanse of clean ocean I've witnessed, I figure anything is possible. The world of this Cold Island is so enormous, I've never felt so small.

For some reason, that comforts me a little.

I have to look a long time at the little washing station to realize that underneath the shelf that holds small rolled cloths, there is a large jar - and it takes me even longer to realize that it is meant to hold the greywater. Blushing at my own ignorance, I dump the rinsing bowl out into it. Then I pause for a minute, wondering if I can afford to wash my feet. I shrug. I have to assume water is at least somewhat cheaper here, so I pour nearly a half-liter more into the rinsing bowl. It's been a couple of days since I've had my boots off, and after all, I don't know what sort of clothing - or even behaviour, come to think of it - will be expected from me here.

I _was_ more than half expecting to be cooped up in a hospital for the duration of my time here. . . and now that it's clear Uncle intends nothing of the kind. . . well. . . I feel at quite a loose end.

I don't know exactly how I'm supposed to be feeling, and my actual emotions are even more confused. . .

I'm just drying my feet when Mrs. Graham knocks briefly at my door, and then walks in.

"Oh, good, I was hoping you'd still be washing," she smiles, and holds out a small pile of clean, soft cloth, "I don't know if these will fit you, dearie, but I thought they might be more comfortable for you than. . ." she trails off, unable to politely say anything more, even though she has obviously looked over my worn, patched and threadbare clothes, and found them woefully wanting. I find I have to agree with her.

"I'm sure they will be, thank you, Mrs. Graham."

I take the little pile of neatly folded things. At my first touch, I gasp. These are no ordinary clothes.

"Ohhh, linen!" I exclaim, "Marvelous!"

"You know linen?" she says, eyes brightening.

I lightly run the hem of the pale blue tunic between my fingers, "Oh yes, I studied Historic Botany in school. I know all the natural plant fibres. Hemp, sisal, cotton, jute. . ." I throw off my dark brown tunic, and slip into this one. She needn't have worried that it wouldn't fit. If anything, it hangs a little loosely on my underfed body. The cloth is fresh, smooth, and almost infinitely more comfortable than my old Tyfon-cloth things. "But I've never worn anything like this," I say, stepping into the dark blue cotton trousers. They are thicker-woven than the thin tunic, and not as smooth or soft. But I can fit into them, and at the moment, that's all that matters.

At the bottom of the pile, there's a pair of soft little knitted house-slippers. These also fit reasonably well.

"Thank you again, Mrs. Graham," I say, a great deal comforted.

"Well, I'll tell my daughter her clothes went to a good use. Now ye'r expected downstairs for tea," she smiles and gestures gently.

"Oh!" I start, suddenly remembering myself, "I nearly forgot! You may not want me to be eating with you. . ." I dive into my discarded trouser pocket to fish out my Quarantine Order, "I've just gotten over this season's 'flu. I might still be contagious."

She barely looks at the little plastic square before waving it away, "Nae, dearie, there's nothing wrong with you a few good meals and warm bed at night couldn't cure, that's certain."

Reluctantly, I tuck the card away in my bag, "But. . . if you or Uncle catch it. . ."

She laughs, "Oh, no dear, _we_ won't get it! Our immune systems develop better on the ground, and anyway, we were inoculated two weeks ago."

"We?" I take a brush from a nearby table and hastily tie back my hair.

"The whole island, dear. Now come and have tea. I've made a few extra special treats for you. . ." she chats away gently as she escorts me out.

Halfway down the hall, I remember something again, "Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot!" I say, interrupting her chatter, "I meant to bring my bottle of lemon syrup to tea. I wanted to. . ." I stammer slightly, "Well. . . W-wanted to contribute as much as I can. . . I mean, it's little enough, of course. . ."

Mrs. Graham pats my arm, then grips it to prevent me turning around, "No, no, dearie, you're a guest this time, nothing owing." She cocks her head and smiles, "But lemon syrup you say? I've never heard of it, but it sounds an ideal thing to have with our supper tonight. I'll go and get it, no worries, dearie."

I half smile back, still slightly unsure with all the newness of this place. "It's in my mother's old enamel bottle. . ." I mention, cautiously.

"Be sure I'll be careful as the day, dearie."

I smile fully, already liking this small grey-haired person more than I have anyone in years, "You can call me Claire, Mrs. Graham."

"Oh, bless ye, Claire, child," she says, smiling and patting my arm again, "I've a feeling we're going to be friends." She stops in front of the door to the library. "Here we are, then. Enjoy yer tea."

I enter my uncle's library with considerably less trepidation than I did half an hour ago.


	9. Lambing Season

As it turns out, I _don't_ understand tea. Not what it apparently means here, anyway.

When I walk in, Uncle is facing away from me, bent over the tea-tray on his desk, compounding a gigantic pot of tea using spoons and tins and strainers and boiling water and a cozy, and several heaping spoonfuls of _actual loose leaf tea_.

I didn't know _anyone_ did that anymore. . .

His mind is so absorbed in this task that he doesn't greet me, or look up, or acknowledge my presence at all.

His mind.

Uncle Lamb is _not_ crazy. I tell myself this a few more times, until I can unclench my fists, and walk deeper into the room.

While I'm not afraid of him any longer, I know even less what to expect now than I did this morning. I feel like some wary hesitation is more than a little justified.

But, it's just tea. Surely I can get through a simple meal without. . .

A long, low table that was invisible from the door comes into view, and all my other thoughts stutter to a halt.

From Mrs. Graham's excited chatter about "special treats", I had expected this to consist of, perhaps, sweet corncakes with whipped cream and fortified fruit paste for starters, baked potatoes and gravy to follow, and maybe bone broth consommé or chicken pâté to end on - things like what my mother used to serve for tea when we had company, but on a smaller scale, of course.

And here I find myself looking down at a more than two-meter long table positively _stuffed_ with food. There are _four_ whole cakes - one walnut, one battenburg, one Victoria sandwich, and one tall, pink-and-white frosted thing, with what looks like an entire tin of preserved whole cherries heaped on top. There are piles of tiny scones next to them, flecked with reddish-pink and brown and smelling of fruit and roasted nuts. After that there are five. . . no, six, pots of differently coloured spreads. I sniff delicately, and they smell chiefly of fruit, and range in colour from dark purple-black, to bright amber and ruby, to light golden brown. There is a bowl of white stuff that looks too thick to be whipped cream. Briefly, I wonder what it is. Next to it is a yellow mound of something that looks like a particularly good quality margarine, and a huge ceramic jug of chilled milk. Then there is a large tart filled with what looks like scrambled eggs. . . reaching far, far back in my memory I can just recall that my parents would sometimes have slices of a similar thing. . . called. . . I think. . . quiche? I cannot be sure. Then there are three different thick, squidgy, whitish disks cut into thin wedges, next to a tray of fancy wheat-flour crackers sprinkled with seeds, and two bowls filled with fruit - one with dark, dusky-purple grapes, and one with tiny jewel-like things I _think_ might be red currants.

And then there are the sandwiches. All open-faced, on the most expensive looking wheat-flour bread I've ever seen, and all of them utterly mysterious. I don't even know what to _call_ them. . .

There is one platter of very savoury-smelling green and red circles, one of a thick brown paste that smells strongly of the ocean, one of a thinly sliced translucent pink thing sprinkled with green sprigs of chives and nameless small dark green spheres, one of thinly sliced white squares and dark green circles, and one of a thick yellow paste with generous amounts of tiny white cubes mixed through it.

Not even the most lavish of my parents' tea parties ever came close to this.

Slowly, I sit on the nearby sofa, open-mouthed, not even knowing where to begin.

I'm not shocked they have such varied abundance here, not exactly. . . I'm just stunned they did all this. . . for me.

A teacup and saucer are pushed into my hand, and a smiling Uncle Lamb sits down next to me.

"Cold Island food takes some getting used to, doesn't it?" he says, a twinkle in his eye.

I pull myself together, "You. . . you mean it's like this _every_ day?"

"Well. . . not quite," his lips twist wryly, "We usually only have one kind of cake, Mrs. Graham almost never makes five kinds of sandwiches, and she certainly doesn't bring out her famous rowanberry jam for just anybody."

"Oh," I say faintly, taking a sip of tea to fortify myself. It's delicious, and makes me realize exactly how hungry I am. "Which. . . one is that?"

With a knowing grin, he takes me through everything on the table I don't know. The cherry cake, the raspberry and almond scones, the butter, the clotted cream, the sloeberry, rowanberry, and blackberry jams, the spiced apple butter, and pear preserves, and honey.

"Honey?" I turn to him, very surprised, "I thought bees were extinct!"

He chuckles slightly, "Oh, they very nearly are. We're one of only two Cold Islands that have any bees to speak of. There's a hearty strain of them here though." Then he turns back to the table.

Next, he explains the three kinds of soft cheese sitting next to the crackers, the mushroom and rocket quiche, and the ruby currants, and then he pours me a glass of the goat's milk, insisting I taste it.

I do. I hardly know what to think. I'm used to peanut milk. This is wildly different.

"What is a goat?" I ask, blushing with my ignorance, "Is it anything like a cow? I had forgotten about cows. . . I had forgotten about cheese! And butter. . . _and_ real cream! They taught us about them in school, but I. . ."

Uncle smiles indulgently, "Yes, Skycity life does make you forget many things, doesn't it? A goat is nothing like a cow, but we raise both here - you'll soon learn the difference."

"I hope so."

I sigh a little, wishing I could know everything at once.

"Anything else you want to know what it is?"

"Those sandwiches are baffling me, Uncle Lamb."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" He smiles, and takes an empty plate, then recites what each sandwich is while serving me one of each. "Let's see. . . today it looks like we have. . . cucumber and tomato, salmon and anchovy paste, smoked salmon with chives and capers, cheese and pickle, and deviled quail's egg." He hands me the plate so insistently I have to put my teacup down in order to take it. "And now, you mustn't stand on ceremony. Have just exactly what you like, my dear."

I oblige, recklessly heaping my plate with a bit of everything until it is so full I have to stop. Uncle doesn't chide me for greediness, though. In fact, he looks immensely pleased.

He fills his own plate, then settles himself in a tall, very comfortable-looking armchair.

"Now," he says, cheerful but somehow also very serious, "I expect you have a whole army of questions, hm?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, since my mouth is currently full. With currants, as it happens.

"Good," he says, taking a large bite of buttered scone, "Fire when ready."

I blink a little. I wasn't expecting such blunt honesty.

I chew contemplatively. There are any number of places I could begin. . .

"Are there. . . any hospitals around here?" I ask, finally.

Uncle blinks and sits forward like he wasn't expecting me to ask that first thing. "Well, yes. In fact, there are three. Two in Inverness itself, and one just down the road here." He nods towards the road at the front of the house. "Why? Was there someone you wanted to visit?"

"No. . . I . . . I thought. . ." I chase a grape around my plate for a few seconds, "I thought that's where I'd be visiting _you_."

His brows knit in confusion for a long few seconds before his face clears, and his head goes back in a long, delighted peal of laughter.

"Ha! You remember that do you? Ha-Ha!" A moment later I assume he remembers his dignity, and he settles down to an occasional chuckle for the next several minutes.

"I was only eleven," I say, suddenly feeling a need to defend my childhood misconceptions, "And it was my first visit to Skycity 39. I only caught one glimpse you - wild eyes, wild hair - but I saw what you did to your rooms. . . and. . ." I look him straight in the eyes, begging him to understand. "It _frightened_ me."

"Well, you always were a noticer." He lightly pounds a fist on the near corner of the table. "Marvelous. Simply marvelous. No, Claire dear, I'm not mad. Never have been. A touch eccentric, of course, but then any descendant of your Great-grandfather Beauchamp could hardly help being that."

"But. . . then. . ."

"Why?"

"Yes!" I almost yell, " _Why_?"

He helps himself to a slice of walnut cake, "Tell me dear, how many people, do you think, would like to live here on this island?"

I pause in the middle of one of the smoked-salmon sandwiches. I've never had fish before, and I'm quite enjoying it. "Well. . . _everybody_ , I imagine. . ."

"Precisely. Now imagine everyone who wanted to live here, _trying_ to live here. If all of them flooding in didn't cause chaos on its own, we'd very quickly run out of space, and things for them to do, and places for them to live, and even if we put them all to work farming and building houses, how long do you think our endemic animals and plants would survive?"

I put down my half-eaten slice of quiche, "Oh. . . I see."

"I'm sure you do," he says, kindly but firmly, "I know it all seems abundantly prosperous here - and it is - but it is also true that we are, in fact, a very tenuous outpost. An island indeed. And a beleaguered one. We have to be intensely careful. And so, no outsiders are allowed past the Port except for medical reasons, and all the food we export is exactly the same as the kind grown on the Skycities - the same hybrid fruits and grains, the same genetically altered chickens, the same line-bred potatoes and sugar beets. Even though we grow it all using soil and not hydroponics. We must maintain the illusion that we are _merely_ radiation-free, and that living here is almost exactly the same as living on a Skycity. A nice place to visit if you need to, yes. But not Utopian or Edenic. Not an infinitely superior place to live."

I sigh, "So the only visitors you allow are the old, or sick, or mentally ill."

"Nearly all, yes," he nods.

"Which means you can control what they see. And eat."

"Yes."

"And so. . . all those years ago. . . you pretended. . ."

"Pretended to be mad, yes. So I could have an ongoing illness and an excuse to give to the world as to why I stayed here."

I drizzle some honey on a scone, "But. . . that doesn't explain why _I'm_ here. . ."

He sighs sharply, "Claire, dear, I wanted to _see_ you," his face sobers heavily, "After all, I never got to see Henry again, and. . ." He blinks rapidly, and takes an unreasonably large gulp of his tea. "Old Woolsey had to contact the Council here to approve your visit, of course, and since I'm friends with the lot of them, and Beauchamp being such an uncommon name. . ."

I give him a wry half-smile, "And what were you planning on doing about my finding out just how extraordinary it is here?" I pop the last of a bit of goat cheese and cracker into my mouth, to illustrate my point.

"Oh, there was some trifling arrangement about the Council making you sign some sort of Non-Disclosure agreement before you leave, but that's a small enough price to pay, isn't it?"

"I suppose. . ." I trail off, as another question occurs to me.

"Uncle-"

"Call me Lamb, dear," he interrupts, "Everyone does."

I nod, and continue, "Lamb. . . why. . . why did you. . . I mean. . . pretending to be mad is one thing. _Needing_ to do it is quite another. What. . . what could possibly. . ." I growl, exasperated with both him and myself, "Besides, if you aren't mad then why. . . why did they let you. . ." I shrug, feeling quite incoherent, "Just. . . why?"

He doesn't say anything for a long time.

I'm scraping up the last crumbs of my slice of cherry cake, and washing it down with the very last of the pot of tea when he finally murmurs quietly, "Are you done eating, dear?"

I nod, and get up to put my cup and saucer neatly back on the tea-tray.

Lamb also gets up, and takes a walking stick from a stand in the corner.

"Then follow me."

The late afternoon sun slants the shadows dramatically across the library furniture as Lamb opens both sides of a big double-leaved door, and gestures imperiously for me to follow him. The breeze nips cold on my nose and ears, and I take a moment to grab the long mackintosh coat Lamb left laying on his desk. I throw it around me before I join him.

He is making a brisk pace across the stony, grassy fields, and it is quite an effort for me to keep up with him.

It isn't until we reach a largish stand of trees that he slows down at all. In fact, he stops, and stands still to watch a display of something I've never seen, and don't at all understand.

It is worth watching, though, I cannot deny that.

Fluttering clouds of small, winged, golden creatures are flying in all their glory across the field. They swoop and dive and soar all around, a silent, swirling, bright-yellow hurricane, speckling the grass and sky and trees around us with bits of colour stolen from the dying light.

Insects. Clearly. But I'm still confused, and look a sharp question over at Lamb.

He interprets my look, and laughs a little, his eyes still following the fluttering yellow wings, "Brimstone moths, my dear," he says softly, "Now's their hour. They swarm nearly every twilight this time of year."

"Brimstone? Swarm? You make then sound so dangerous!" For the first time in what feels like decades, I smile without effort.

"Not at all. It's like calling a big man "wee". The name is appropriate because it's precisely the opposite of true."

"Oh, Lamb, that doesn't make any sense." I reach out a hand, hoping one of the lovely creatures will land on it. None do.

He sighs a little, and watches one moth as it descends to a blade of grass, and sits there, slowly flapping its wings. "I had forgotten just how literal you are in the Skycities." He barks a joyless laugh, "Who would have thought that when the Human race finally reached heaven, they would lose all their sense of humour?"

I link my arm through his, "The Skycities are hardly heaven, Uncle Lamb - though I appreciate the imagery - and eight years of war is enough to make just about anyone a bit grumpy, you know. . ."

"You are right dear," he says somewhat abstractedly, "You must forgive the foibles of an eccentric old man, I'm afraid. . ."

Then, with deep sigh, he turns away from the moths, only to gesture grandly at a hill some hundred meters away from us.

"There it is, my dear. Why I am here."

It is a small hill, but crowned with trees and a collection of large, slender grey stones standing upright. The last rays of the sunset are just glinting from the edges of them, setting them as though with jewels of fire.

A pang of perfect beauty strikes me. I am incapable of speaking in anything but a reverent tone.

"What. . . is it?" I ask.

"A power generator." Lamb's tone is as solemn as my own.

"It looks like. . . well, to me it looks like a bunch of upright stones, but. . ."

"And so it is." Lamb nods, "Just standing stones. Nothing more."

"So. . . what power does it generate?"

"The power of infinite potential."

For the briefest of moments, I wonder if he really is mad after all. . .

Then, the golden light leaves the structure entirely, and somehow the spell is broken. Lamb's next words are spoken quietly, but with his usual cheerful confidence.

"It is remarkable what Humanity lost when we decided the Earth could be conquered, my dear."

"I'm. . . sure you're right," I say, uncertain how to respond to the non sequitur.

"And the only way to regain our heritage, is to be subject to the Earth again."

"That. . . may be."

"Certainly. It may." He turns us around and we start back to his house, this time at a much slower pace. "I'm sorry I cannot explain more, Claire, dear, not tonight. And anyway, we must get back home, Mrs. Graham will have our supper waiting."

I let the conversation drop. There's no telling what Mrs. Graham has made for our supper, but I can hardly wait.


	10. Sassenach

Bacon.

The smell spills out of the open kitchen door, and beckons me toward the bright, inner warmth. I've only ever had bacon once, years and years ago, but the scent is as unforgettable as it is unmistakable.

Mrs. Graham must be frying bacon. . .

Suddenly, _tea_ feels like it was years ago, and my stomach rumbles. The walk back from the hill with the standing stones has been unexpectedly strenuous. I'm _starving_. I eagerly pull away from Uncle, and almost trip on the slippery stone cobbles of the walk. The soles of my house slippers are wet through with damp, and my toes are numb from stubbing them repeatedly against rocks I cannot see in the dark.

"Whoa!" Lamb exclaims, re-taking my arm and steadying me before handing me up the few steps into the kitchen. "Not _again_ , Claire, really. . ."

"Sorry," I say, shivering slightly, "I'm just not used to the ground being uneve-"

"Lamb!" Mrs. Graham interrupts, snapping a cloth sharply against my uncle's shoulder, "Tell me you didnae take this girl out for a walk, in the cold, and the wet, _in house slippers_? And her just ower the 'flu! _Tell_ me ye didnae!"

Her accent deepens as she grows more upset.

Uncle suppresses a smile, and shrugs lightly, "Very well. I didn't." He sits down at the kitchen table and pours something steamy from a large jug, "She wanted to go."

Mrs. Graham makes a grumpy, wordless sound that is somehow far more expressive than any words she could have said. In thirty seconds flat, she has my slippers off, hung them over the oven door to dry, and has put my feet in a bowl of steaming hot water, a warm blanket around my shoulders, and a positively massive mug of what I now see is spiced milk in my hand.

For a minute I'm dazed with the speed of her actions - I'm sitting at the table without any clear memory of having gotten here - but then the twin glows of a foot-bath and a hot drink reawaken my senses. I wiggle my toes and sip from the mug, deciding to be content with what I cannot change.

The smiling liveried man who drove me this morning is sitting across from me, chuckling.

"T'missus is verra pa'ticular. Verra pa'ticular." He grins fondly in her direction, "'Specially aboot the damp."

" _Mr._ Graham, I presume?" I ask, slightly breathless still.

"Aye," he nods, then looks past me to his bustling wife, "Dinna fash yersel' so Mary - this wee Sassenach may not look it," he inclines his head briefly towards me, "But I ken she's as tough as old shoo leather."

Mrs. Graham exclaims again, looks me up and down with a sort of loving exasperation, and then goes back to tending the array of sizzling pans on the cooking station.

From my warm cocoon, I glance between her and Uncle, hoping for some sort of explanation of the last few minutes. When none is forthcoming, I ask, hesitantly, "Sassy. . . neck?"

Mr. Graham explodes in a roar of jubilant laughter, I see Mrs. Graham's shoulders shake, and even Uncle smiles behind his mug of spiced milk.

"No dear," says Lamb, clearly amused, "Sassenach." His accent is far off from how Mr. Graham pronounced it, but that doesn't make it sound any more familiar to my ears. "It means 'English', or, I suppose more accurately, 'outlander'. I'm one too, if that makes you feel any better."

"English?" I say, only more confused at this point, "We're not English. There hasn't been an _England_ for over a hundred and fifty years. After the Unity War, and WWIII, there weren't even _countries_ anymore, let alone-"

"Yes, yes," says Mrs. Graham, descending on the table with three loaded, steaming plates, which she distributes to each of us, "But, you see, dearie, you don't live on _land_ anymore, do ye? "Outlander" is a perfectly accurate title for you Skycity folk."

"Well. . . I suppose so, but. . ."

She adds another boiling hot half-liter to the bowl at my feet, and tops up my mug with freshly steamed milk. "That it's also the traditional Scottish name for people who aren't us is neither here nor there at this point."

"Well, technically. . ." Uncle starts, then quickly silences as Mrs. Graham snaps her hand cloth at his shoulder again.

" _Technically_ it's supper time," she sets a plate mounded with butter and a small crystal pitcher filled with my lemon syrup in the middle of the table. "Now eat yer oatcakes and bacon, the havering lot of you."

Then she plunks down her own plate, and with a triumphant look round the table that practically _dares_ any of us to say anything at all, she puts words to action, and starts to eat her supper.


	11. Lies In The Hand

For a brief, stomach-dropping half-second, I don't know where I am.

Then the world coalesces into a warm, comfortable, curtained bed, bigger in itself than my whole tent back home. The angle of the draperies echo its rough canvas, but in such a refined, tempered way that even my first wild moments of confusion seem pleasant by contrast. The solid, richly carven wooden posts leave my old FlexiTen construction so far behind I wonder that I ever found the tent acceptable in the least.

Until this moment, I never realized just exactly how much I hate that ugly old canvas tent. Not for what it is, but for what it means. That I have nothing, and no one. That all I love is dead - and the only thing left is bare survival. No growth, no development, no joy, just plain, plodding, soul-sucking drudgery, forever and for all time.

I've only spent one night away from it, and already it's unthinkable to ever go back.

I push the thought away, putting off _that_ paradigm shift for sometime when I'm fully awake.

I've scarcely ever slept as well as I did last night. I barely had time to settle in between the clean, dry sheets before I was dead to the world.

No matter. I'm awake now. I sit up, and look about me with considerably more interest than I did yesterday. Whatever I may feel about the last nine months, I've retained the habit of getting up at dawn, so everything in the room is still somewhat shadowy and amorphous. I think I can make out a desk, a large cupboard, a table, two chairs, and a couch to one side of me, and the washing station, a dressing table, and three more chairs to the other. There are several minor things I cannot make out in the gloom. And there are two banks of full shelving across from me, with a door in between them. I remember just noticing them last night - no more than that. Now, in the bluish-grey light of early morning, I can't help but wonder what the slim rectangles that populate the shelves are, or where the door leads.

I shake my head at myself.

"Curiosity killed the cat," I murmur, and instantly wonder if there are any cats on this island. I've only seen cats in pictures - I wouldn't mind seeing one in real life. . .

I shake my head again, and then slip from underneath the heavy covers, and go in search of the toilet facilities.

Maybe _that's_ what is behind the door.

And it turns out it is, but I stand in the doorway staring for several minutes before I find what need. A huge freestanding vat sits at one end of the long, narrow room, on an expanse of gleaming white tiles. Half the wall to my left is covered in shelves full of bottles, jars, brushes of all shapes and sizes, tubes of things I've never seen before, coloured bricks of sweet-smelling stuff, multi-coloured plastic boxes, tiny mirrors, jewel-toned spheres in glass cylinders, see-through bags of puffy bits of cotton, and a myriad of strange devices I don't know the uses for. Beside them is another dressing table, this one stacked with fluffy, neatly folded lengths of cloth. Directly ahead is a wall of full-length mirrors, and to my right is a wide archway that leads to an enormous walk-in closet. My mother had such a closet - a much smaller one - that was her pride and joy. Only in Central Township is space ever wasted in such a way.

And then I spot it, between the full-length mirrors and the big empty vat - another door, sitting small and plain, almost like an afterthought. In there is the device I need, and, thanks be, it is the same VacuSan composting model as we have on the Skycities - no strange buttons or pull-cords, or fancy fripperies like scented sprays or heated seats. The DriWash sanitation tissue is even the same floral scent we have on Skycity 15. The familiarity is quite relaxing.

The cold white tiles around the vat strike a chill across my bare feet, both walking to the tiny side-room, and coming back out again.

I pause, briefly, to wonder what such a large vat could be for. Surely, this isn't an AR gel decon room, is it? Right across from the _closet_? Surely not. But I'm at a loss as to what else an empty vat could be used for, in a community that grows its food in soil instead of specially treated water. If this was a lab, now, or a farming station, there would be any number of uses for it, but this is a toilet station and dressing room that is also used for. . . First aid? Display? Storage? Magic potion. . . ing? I realize I don't actually know that it _isn't_ a lab of some sort - those bottles and jars could contain anything, really.

But next to the toilet station and clothing storage? Why?

I also wonder where the steamshower station is, but there's time enough to ask about that. My feet are beginning to ache with cold.

I throw on the long ÆXo-cloth hooded overcoat I brought with me, and pull on the house slippers - which are perfectly dry from yesterday, thanks to Mrs. Graham - and go in search of a hot cup of tea.

Unsurprisingly, I find one in the kitchen, along with Mrs. Graham herself.

"Now why am I not at all shocked to see you up and about so early?" I ask, teasingly cheerful, but still subdued in the large quiet of this house at dawn.

"Oh, I'm not usually," she says mildly, pouring me a cup of tea before I can ask for one, "It's just the time year, you know."

I don't know, but I don't ask, either.

"So, you like working for Uncle?" I say. It's less a question and more an invitation. If ever there was a woman who emphatically does exactly what she chooses to do, it's her.

"Oh, Lamb's a dear," she says, sitting down across from me, "But I worked here long before he ever came to the island. This was the old manse, you know."

"Oh?" I say, as though I have any idea what a manse is, "Was it?"

She nods, and by her expression, she is remembering some wonderful days gone by. "Yes. And Reverend Wakefield was a dear, dear man. He's gone over forty years ago, now, bless his soul. He had no children, more's the pity." She sighs a little, in regret or happy remembrance it's impossible to say. "But he looked after Ben and me - left us legacy enough so's we could set up our Beth in her own little shop in town, and more than that, we've a permanent place here, so long as the house stands," she chuckles softly, "And they can't tear it down - it's an official historical building now!" She sips her tea, placidly, "Yes, the old Reverend thought of everything." She turns her twinkling eyes back to me, "But here I am, maundering on. What do _you_ think of the house, dearie?"

"I think it's the most beautiful place I've ever been in," I say, sincerely, "Wood paneling, drapery, lamps and mirrors everywhere! I've only ever read about such things. You must have an exceptionally good house-generator. All of the lights in this place!" I nod in the direction of her square-meter sized cooking pad, atop the full-size baking/warming oven, "And that cooking station must take as much energy as a skycar, at least. Not to mention heating the whole house must be a nightmare and half. I can't _imagine_ keeping it all clean. . ."

Mrs. Graham smiles wryly, "It _is_ something of a chore, that's true enough. . ."

"But I'm talking nonsense. Of _course_ you have a good generator. I saw it last night. Though why you keep it so far from the house I don't know. . ."

Her brows knit in confusion, "Our. . . generator?"

I nod, "Yes. Those stones on the hill? Uncle said they were a power generator. I didn't quite understand what he meant. But, of course, with a house this size-"

"He _didnae_!" she interrupts, very angry, but clearly not at me, "The first _night_ he takes ye thear! Of all places, on yer first day! The numptie! He might at least have let ye have a night's rest first!" She puts her head in her hands a moment, as though trying to dispel a headache, which maybe she is. "Claire, dearie, I. . ." she makes an exasperated noise at the back of her throat, "I'm none too sure exactly how much he plans to tell ye about those stones, but. . . they ar'nae our house generator. They're. . . sumthin' else entirely."

"Oh. . ." I trail off, too bewildered by her reaction to be too curious at the moment, "Well. . . I'm sure I'll understand eventually," I put down my empty teacup, and stand to go back to my room, "I suppose I ought to go get dressed. . ."

"Wait!" she says, snatching up my teacup with a strange urgency I've not seen from her before, "Ye. . . would'nae mind if I read yer tea leaves, dearie?"

I blink, totally at sea. "Read my. . . tea leaves?" I say, so clearly confused that I don't have to tell her I have no idea what she means.

"Yes dear," she swirls the dregs in my cup, and looks at them intently, "They do say that tea leaves left in a cup can tell a person's future. . ."

This strikes me as so absurd that I cannot help smiling. "Oh, is that all?" I sit back down. "Well, go on then."

For a few minutes she says nothing, only stares into my cup, looking at the base of it, swirling it and tilting it towards the brightening light coming through the window. Finally she puts it down, a strange look on her face.

"Well?" I prompt, less amused than I was a few minutes ago.

"Well, it's odd. . ." she points at the inside of cup, "You see those swirls around the edge, and the scalloped shapes underneath them?" I nod. "Normally, it would mean a journey over water, but since that's been your whole life anyway, there must be more to it than that. There are some very strange shapes that break up the pattern, meaning your near future will change greatly, but. . . also, stay remarkably the same. And then. . . I've never seen such a clean center." She points again, and sure enough, the middle of the base of the cup is remarkably clear of tea leaves, "It's as though. . . your more distant future will curve back on itself. Time after time. Almost. . . looping. And then, it just. . . disappears."

"My future _disappears_?" I say, swinging back to finding the whole thing absurd. "You mean. . . I'm going to die eventually? Isn't that normal?"

"Nae. There's no sign of yer dying. Not yer old age, not yer death, not. . . anything."

She puts the teacup down with an emphatic clatter.

"Agh," she exclaims in the expressive, wordless way I'm starting to expect from the people here, "'Tis just tea leaves, dearie. They do say. . . real truth. . . is. . . well. . . written in your hand. . ." she holds out her own hand, wordlessly asking to see mine.

Now palmistry I _have_ heard of. It's part of a sort of parlour game we on Skycity 15 sometimes play during the spring or winter holidays. One participant is the "Veiled Lady" and their part is to wander around the room draped in a sheet or other thin cloth, calling out, "Your Future! Your Future! Your Future for a penny!" or some similar nonsense. Whoever else wants to participate, puts a tenth-liter token on their palm, and holds it out to the Lady. Then she (or he, there's no rule saying it must be a woman, but it's usually not a man), they extend the veil over the outstretched hand, take the token, and then shine a bright torch underneath the other person's palm and fingers. This casts a dim red glow through the skin, and the Veiled Lady then reads out some patter or other about lines of thought and life, lightness and darkness of the heart, heights and lows of the future - all prearranged over-theatrical tosh, I've always thought.

But now, I'm not so sure. . .

This seems so different. . . and Mrs. Graham isn't being at all theatrical. In fact, I've never seen her look so serious.

Slowly, I reach out my hand, and place it, palm up, in hers.

She takes even longer over my hand than she did over my teacup. She tilts and turns my hand, gently, looking at. . . looking for. . . I don't know what. There are lines and wrinkles, dips and curves, a few scars - I have quite a normal hand.

Or so I thought. . .

"Most extraordinary," says Mrs. Graham, at last. She hasn't released my hand, and now she lifts it up to show me some particulars. "Ye see here? 'Tis yer life line. It splits half way through and the two lines run parallel. Now, there's nothing so very strange in that - it could mean naught more then you work a job very different from yer private life - but the odd thing with ye is. . . both yer lines are broken up, and each part curved outward. They make these little ovals, see?" And it's true, that part of my hand wrinkles into tiny oval-ish shapes.

"And. . . that means. . ."

"Don't ye see, dearie? It's looping again. Yer future curves back on itself, over and over again. Almost like ye live. . . a dozen lives in the middle of yer life. . . and then the lines join again, and. . ."

"Yes. . . and then?"

She hesitates a long moment, then says, slowly, "I've not seen these exact signs before, but. . . everything says that ye'll die. . . before ye'r born."

My forehead wrinkles, "But. . ."

She quickly moves on to another part of my hand, "And here, ye see, ye'r passionate, intelligent, empathetic, hopeful, a quick learner. . . ye might be destined for great things, but ye'll have to choose to do them. . . and here," she smiles coyly, "Ye know how to please a man. And it looks like ye'll have two husbands. Or maybe three. With such a labyrinthine future and yer marriage line all branched and fragmented, it's hard to tell, but for all that, it's certain ye'll get to exercise yer power over men before the end."

It's all too much, but that last is quite enough.

"Oh! I don't think so," I pull my hand away, not sharply, but firmly, "I mean, Frank's been dead over four years, and I've not felt any inclination to marry again."

"Even so," she says, rising to clean up the tea things, "Don't discount the possibility."

I smile placatingly, "Oh, I won't. I mean, I only came to this island because I hoped to find my future anyway-"

A ringing clash interrupts me. Mrs. Graham has dropped a cup and saucer, smashing them to shards. She doesn't seem to notice.

"What did ye say, dearie?"

I pause a little, confused, "I. . . I said, I came here hoping to find my future. . ."

She whirls back to face me. "When ye saw Craigh na Dun, what did ye feel?"

"When I saw _what_?"

She waves a frustrated hand, "The standing stones. They're called Craigh na Dun. Now when ye saw them last night, what did ye feel?"

She's so intent, I have to answer her, though I hardly know what I felt myself.

"I. . . I suppose I felt. . . solemn. . . and. . . awed?. . . maybe. . . curious, I suppose. It was such a short glimpse, and we didn't stay long. . ."

"Did ye want a closer look?"

I nod, slowly. "I did."

"Ye felt their power, then. . ." Her eyes focus far away, and her mouth settles into a determined line.

"Mrs. Graham, what _is_ that place?"

She takes a long, slow breath, and with some effort, focuses her eyes back on mine, "It _is_ a place of power, dear. Just. . . not the kind that is normally understood. The power of Craigh na Dun is contained within what each person hopes they may find. And you have some powerful hopes, my dear. . ."

I sigh, tired of so many impossible things before breakfast, "I'm. . . _so_ confused."

She nods, "Aye, ye would be. . . my apologies Claire, dearie." She pats my shoulder, reassuringly, "I'll tell Lamb you want to know more about the place - he's always willing to explain it all to an eager listener. . . If they're the right kind of person, of course. And. . . in two days time. . . perhaps ye'll be able to _see_ what I'm talking about. Lamb will know whether you could bear to see it. . ." She trails off, and goes to fetch a dustpan and broom.

At that moment, direct sunlight breaks through the kitchen window for the first time that morning, bathing my face and the table in brilliant radiance.

I can only hope the dawning of my understanding will be so bright.


	12. Battle Field

"Weel, ye cannae leave her out of it _now_ , Lamb! She shows all the signs! Every one! She _deserves_ tae see. She deserves tae _know_!"

I pause on my way back from getting dressed. Not to my expected quiet breakfast, but to Mrs. Graham's voice ringing though the closed kitchen door. My uncle's voice replies in a low rumble I cannot decipher.

"And that's as may be! But if ye cannae bring yersel tae do right by yer own flesh and blood, then on yer own heid be it, Q. Lambert Beauchamp!"

I've retreated halfway back up the hall stairs by this point in her tirade, and I'm glad I have, for Uncle comes bursting out of the kitchen, and nearly runs down the passage towards the library, not looking once in my direction. I doubt he even noticed I'm here.

Good. Family ties or not, there are some situations better left un-meddled with.

I hear the far-away slam of what I assume is the library door, and only then do I feel safe enough to creep into the kitchen, as unobtrusively as I can.

Mrs. Graham is stirring her pots and tending to her oven with a good deal more vim than is strictly necessary. I don't interrupt her, but sit down meekly at the half-laid table, waiting for her to notice me.

I don't know when she does notice me, but when she turns back to finish laying the table, she neither starts nor cries out. Almost viciously she sets the bowls and plates next to the forks and spoons - _plunk, plunk, plunk_ \- and then the mugs and water glasses with their higher - _tap, clank, tap, clank_. When she's done, she leans on the table, and gives a long, exasperated sigh.

"That uncle of yours, Claire, is a right stone-headed fool sometimes."

I hold back a smile. "He'd hardly be a Beauchamp if he wasn't, Mrs. Graham."

She exhales sharply, lips almost twisting into a sneer, but her eyes soften, "Aye, mebbe so. Ye heard?"

"Some of it," I say, "Your half, anyway."

"Tha's nowise near enough," she pounds an impatient fist on the table, "Ye mus' still be totally in the dark. . ." She looks to me for confirmation of this, and I suppose my silence answers her well enough. "Claire dear, if he does'nae tell ye _today_ , then I'll tell ye. Every bit I know. Heaven knows it's as much my secret as his." She looks dubiously in the direction of the library, "But we'll give him a chance first. He's right enough - he's earned that much."

"Not from me he hasn't," I say frankly, "All he's earned from me is a good deal of childhood resentment."

She clicks her tongue, and straightens up, "Aye. . . well. . . I'll bring you your breakfast, dearie."

Halfway through the oat porridge, eggs, sausage, toast, butter and jam, Lamb reappears in the doorway, looking, if not contrite, then at least subdued. Although, why I'm looking for contrition from him, I have no idea. . .

"Morning," he nods solemnly at me, then applies himself seriously to the business of eating.

It is a long while before he ventures to speak again, and when he does, he directs his comments only at me, ignoring Mrs. Graham entirely.

"I have plans for us today, my dear, but they're flexible," he looks up briefly from the last piece of toast, "Was there anywhere specific you wanted to go? Something you wanted to see?"

"Oh. . . no. . . I. . . wouldn't know where to start. . ."

"Good," he says, practically, gulping down the last of his tea, "Then I'll meet you out front in ten minutes."

I'm eager for anything that can remove me from the oppressive awkwardness surrounding the breakfast table. In the prescribed ten minutes I am ready, in five more Uncle has me settled in the same groundcar I arrived in yesterday - the front seat this time - and we are off, deeper into the hills to I don't know where. I don't care either. He has me, we are alone, and as private as any two Humans can be in this world.

He can start explaining any time he wants. . .

For what feels like ages, but probably isn't actually very long, he does nothing but pilot the groundcar, looking nowhere but resolutely at the road.

When he does finally speak, it's the last thing I expected him to say.

"I'm afraid I don't know you nearly as well as I should, my dear. I don't even know what you studied in school."

Such an ordinary and straightforward statement shouldn't shock me, I suppose. But everything I've ever thought about him has changed so much - and so quickly - that now a simple conversational opening sounds. . .

Ominous? Portentous? I don't know. . .

"I took a degree in Historical Botany," I say.

He chuckles softly, and relaxes his straight-ahead gaze just enough that I can see a twinkle in his eye, "I bet Henry _loved_ that. . ."

"He hated it," I say simply, "If I recall correctly, the phrase "useless drivel" was used more than once."

"Yes, that does sound like Henry, the poor stick-in-the-mud," he turns and gives me a quick appraising glance, "You had your own way in the end, I see."

"Of course."

"Of course," he repeats back to me, nodding, "There'd be no forcing you, and the last person who could _talk_ a headstrong girl around was Henry. Do you know, dear, there are times I wonder how much Beauchamp he really was? He took so after our Grandmother FitzSimmonds. . ." he trails off, looking at me sidelong, "Sorry. I forget that you don't know as much about our family history as I do. . . back to the point. So. Historical Botany. Naturally, _I_ approve, but then, I'm an anthropologist. I _would_ approve, wouldn't I?"

"Maybe," I say, gazing out of the window at the soul-satisfying colors gleaming in the morning sun - greens and red and browns and blues - "I think, really, it was your being the kind of scientist he couldn't understand that turned him against all science he didn't understand in the first place. Not that his opinions were your fault, of course." I look at him sharply, and for a brief second, quickly suppressed, I think I see the same sort of condescending smile that my father sometimes wore when we discussed my chosen profession. Maybe it's my imagination. Maybe that particular facial expression means something different to Lamb than it did to my father.

And maybe Uncle Lamb is still almost a total stranger to me. . .

"Anyway," I sigh and lean back in my chair, "I think, in the end, he just wanted better for me than being a common farm tech, and could never shake the disappointment," I laugh, sarcastically humorless, "To end up a plain housewife in North-3, of all places! Oh, the shame of it!"

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he says, matching my sarcasm.

"Right out of the Spire! And into the common townships!"

"For someone born and bred in Central, it must have been difficult to fathom, especially for someone as narrow-minded as poor old Henry. Do you know dear, the one time he contacted me here, it was to send me notification of your wedding? Out of resignation or spite, I was never quite sure. . ."

"Spite," I nearly growl through clenched teeth, "Neither one of them ever liked Frank, but father took the lead in that. . ."

Uncle nods, carefully non-committal, "I assume. . . your pardon, dear. . . but. . . since you are using your maiden name again. . ."

I brace myself for the wave of sadness that always comes whenever I talk about Frank. "Yes," I almost whisper, "Yes, he's gone. Almost five years ago now. His decon team was hit by a UXB. . ."

"I'm sorry Claire."

The all too familiar yawning, aching cold rises up inside me. I wind my arms around myself, trying not to shiver with the chill of it. "It was. . . fast, I suppose. . ."

For a second Lamb turns and looks me straight in the face, "Fast for him, maybe."

How can someone I barely know echo my thoughts so clearly? What can my sadness mean to him?

For a second, one of his hands comes over and grips my shoulder. No comments, no repining. Just a brief supporting touch, and then he has both hands back on the steering yoke.

A tiny part of the lonely, freezing void inside me warms slightly. Lamb hasn't felt a bit like family to me until this moment.

He _cares_. He actually cares about me.

I feel so instantly, overwhelmingly grateful that I almost forgive him on the spot for lying about being crazy.

Almost.

"Did you know Frank was from here?" Lamb asks, the cheerfulness in his voice only slightly forced.

"From. . ." I suddenly come back to the here and now, "What do you mean? Frank was born in West-2."

"Sorry dear, I mean his ancestors. From before the British Cold War. At least, one of them lived here around then - over two hundred years ago, now. His name was Jonathan Randall. Although most of the times he's mentioned in the documents he's called "Black Jack". I think he must have been a professional gambler."

"No, I. . . didn't know that. And how did _you_ know?"

He flashes a wide grin, "When they told me you were coming for a visit, I decided to look him up. His family history, you know. See if there was anything interesting to tell you."

"And. . . is there?"

"Almost nothing, alas. A name, a nickname, various numbers listed next to his name, the fact that he paid for his lodgings in English pounds, and he died at the age of 40."

"How oddly mundane," I say.

"Indeed."

"And you still haven't said how you were able to find out even that much. . . Look him up. . . where?"

"Why, in the largest and best preserved collection of historical records available in all of the Cold Islands, my dear. Upper Inverness is where most of this hemisphere sent whatever documentation they could salvage after WWIII. On the Skycities we might be known for our hospitals, but locally, we're far more famous for our libraries. There are over 40 official ones within city limits alone, and dozens more in private houses. And speaking of which. . ." He opens his mouth to continue, but doesn't for a long few seconds. When he finally resumes, even the forced cheer has drained from his tone, "No. . . no, I've gotten ahead of myself again. . ." He clears his throat, "Like I was saying earlier, I don't know exactly what you've been taught. . . so. . . Claire, will you forgive me if I ask you some. . . rather basic-sounding questions?"

I smile, ruefully remembering tea yesterday, "I'm hardly in a position to complain, am I?"

"Very well," he says, matter-of-factly, "Do you know what a Druid is?"

"I. . . believe so." My mind instantly begins to whir through every course on ancient history I can remember, "They were. . . mythic. . . tree-people? I think?"

"Mm, tree-worshipers, that's the common notion, yes. But it is wrong."

"Oh?"

"Yes. They were actually ancient scientists." He glances over at me, I presume to make sure I'm following him. Which I am.

Mostly. . .

"And by "scientists" I assume you mean. . . magicians?"

Uncle smiles proudly, "Yes. That's what science seemed like then, of course. But if you look into the history of it, remarkably little of their practices were mere alchemical fol-de-rol. Nearly all of their rituals and traditions had some basis in the scientific method."

"And you know this, because?"

"Claire, there is nowhere quite as steeped in ancient traditions and attitudes as the highlands of Scotland, even here and now, a hundred and fifty years after "Scotland" ceased to exist. And in a place where so much of our history has been preserved. . . well. I _am_ an anthropologist, after all."

My mind is frantically putting the pieces together.

"So. . ." I say, slowly, "Something - interesting, let's say - about these Druids, has been discovered here? And you, having been educated in one of the rarer sciences. . . came here to. . . research and study it? Is that why the Cold Island Council allowed you to stay here even though you aren't sick?"

He beams, and gives me a very satisfied smile, "I knew if I gave you enough clues you'd figure it out. Yes, that is where things started, although I only came into the project more than halfway through."

Our flight-path. . . no. . . drive-path? - now has us threading through some very rocky hills, filmed over with mist and grass and trees. Everything is an enchanting, dreamy grey and green, with flashes of red and yellow and purple, arched over with the brilliant pale blue of the sky, much clearer and cleaner here than on the Skycities.

Dreamy. . . yes. . . This is undoubtedly the place from my dream. It is forbidding, eerie, desolate and yet so full of a life I cannot understand. I press a hand against the cold barrier of the window glass, instinctively wanting to run out of the groundcar, and lose myself in the mist. The bright, sun-glowing edges of the fog show here and there between the hillsides, and the early-morning freshness hasn't left the air, even filtered as it is in here. . .

"The Council has had a team working with Craigh na Dun for nearly 70 years."

I blink hard a few times, and pull myself up short. He is explaining. In a round-about way and in his own time, but he _is_ explaining. I mustn't get distracted.

"You've been here less than 30. . ."

He smiles. "Quite so. But the project didn't have any successes until I was brought in, so I think I've more than proved my worth to them."

 _Now_ we're getting somewhere. For the first time I feel like I can ask a question directly to the purpose.

"The Council has a project involving those standing stones you showed me?" Lamb nods. "What have these Druids to do with that?"

"Everything, my dear. You see, that is why I asked you if you knew what Druids were. Because a major part of the Council's project at Craigh na Dun stems from an investigation into the long purported - but never _proven_ \- Druidic practice of Human sacrifice."

I cannot say anything for several long seconds. I turn and stare at Lamb, all the questions I cannot ask filling my mouth until I cannot keep it closed any longer, though only a huff and a few strangled incredulous noises come out.

There's a twinkle in his eyes as he pats my hand that is now lock-gripped around the armrest, "No no. We aren't sacrificing people. And neither did the Druids."

I exhale gustily in relief.

"We're sending volunteers though time."

We're out of the hills now, and onto an uneven plain. The trees are sparser, and the ground a more varied range of golden browns and soft greens. Lamb slows the car, and pulls up into a paved lot near a long, low building faced with stone. It looks old, but not ancient.

If I had any brain-power left for curiosity, I'd wonder where we are.

"I'll be right back," Lamb says, slipping out of the car and striding into the clean, windswept building like he hasn't a care in world.

And for all I know, he hasn't. . .

He's only gone a minute or two, and when he returns, he hands me a little plastic clip. There's an earbud trailing from the edge of it, and one side of the clip is coated in a shiny metal foil.

Standard-issue museum tickets. The clip lets you through checkpoints, and monitors your progress so you don't get lost, and the earbud provides educational commentary whenever you ask for it. Schoolchildren on Skycity 15 regularly tour Core Engineering, and Navigation Control, and Central Farming, and several other places of note - I've seen tickets like these all my life.

But that doesn't tell me where we are. . .

I clip the ticket to my jacket lapel, and put in the earbud. I look directly at the low stone building and tap the bit of metal foil twice.

An overly chipper female voice speaks into my ear, "Welcome to the Culloden Battlefield memorial site and visitor center! Feel free to enjoy our many walking tours of historical points of interest! Indoors, you may browse a fascinating collection of artifacts from the site, and view a wide range of educational videos concerning the Jac-"

I pull the earbud out of my ear, and let it dangle across my coat. Distantly, I realize that normally I'd find a wire trailing over the front of my jacket to be incredibly annoying, but at the moment, my nerves are intensely preoccupied.

I look around a minute, and find a long pathway that seems relatively deserted. I grab Lamb's wrist, dragging him down it until we're at least 100 meters from anyone who might overhear.

Then I turn to him, confused and angry, and - I may as well admit it - scared.

"Am I _completely_ crazy, or did you just tell me you're _sending people though time_?"

"No dear, you're not crazy." His expression is bland, his tone quite plain and conversational.

"Then. . . what. . . ?" Words fail me.

The plain is full of long grass, scrubby bushes, and flowers greying towards winter. The air is less sharply fresh than it is near Inverness Port, but the earthy, bright scent of soil and growing things still manages to penetrate the thick fog of confusion in my mind, and bring me some measure of peace.

"Rings of standing stones like Craigh na Dun have always been a mystery," Lamb says, speaking low but clearly, "No historian, archaeologist, anthropologist, or psychologist could ever adequately explain their existence. They were clearly Human constructions, sometimes they had graves in or around them, and sometimes they lined up with the seasonal positions of the sun or moon or stars with eerie accuracy, but none of those things told us much about the whys and wherefores."

He pauses a minute, then goes on, almost reverently, "That is, until WWIII. A detachment of Blackwing fighters were on a nighttime bombing raid, and several were shot down over Inverness. Five were known to have parachuted to safety. Only one man was ever recovered. He told the United Planetary forces who had captured him a most odd story. He said that he and his four companions were working their way towards Inverness to try and find some way back to the Independents base in Iceland. On the way, they came across Craigh na Dun - although, he simply called it a ring of stones, of course - and seeing shelter, or at least a windbreak, they made camp. And then, around dawn, he was on watch, and he heard a louder gust of wind than had been usual during that night, and there was a ringing, rolling clang - almost like a bolt of lightning, he said. For a few seconds he was afraid they were caught by some patrol, or shot at by a local farmer, but then he turned around, and his four companions were gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. They had been sleeping cord-wood-style at the base of the large central pier - two with their heads near the stone, two with their feet near it."

"And they just. . . disappeared? There was never any trace of them found?"

"Well. . . not quite." He takes my arm, gently, and we begin to walk down the path together, deeper into the battlefield. "A little over 70 years ago, four men in fighter-pilot outfits walked into Inverness, and tried to steal a boat."

With some difficulty, I conjure up an image of a boat. It's flat and cartoonish - a distant memory from a children's picture book, I think.

"Why a boat?"

"The very question the authorities asked them. They said they needed to get to Iceland. That could only mean they came from a place that still had boats. A place where they were still practical conveyances over large distances. A place that had no idea that all coastlines were closed due to ocean-wide fallout-contamination, and had been for over 70 years by then. A place where Iceland was still habitable, and approachable by sea."

"A place. . ."

Lamb nods, "Or a time."

I digest this for a minute. "This was all confirmed?"

"As much as it could have been. The four men's stories tallied remarkably well with the captured Independents soldier, and after at least two dozen Intelligence officers interviewed him, and a myriad of our Protection officers interviewed the four, not one of them ever wavered from the essential points. Four of them went to sleep next to Craigh na Dun in 2133, the fifth one saw them disappear, and the same four of them woke up next to Craigh na Dun in 2204. That's their story, and every single one of them stuck to it."

"Incredible," I breathe.

"Indeed. But not quite as remarkable as what happened when we tried to send them back."

This is a fresh shock. "You tried to send them _back_?"

"Yes. Well, the project manager at the time did."

"So. . . what happened?"

"Nothing."

I blink, incredulous, " _That's_ remarkable?"

"Considering that they said the stones were an inter-dimensional portal, yes, I'd say it's quite remarkable."

"Well, I don't see how."

"Don't you? Well, if you were going to tell a story about a place, and you got your friends to tell the same story, and you rehearsed it so well that it tallied in every essential way, not just with each other, but with the story a prisoner of war told seventy years beforehand - a story you could hardly be expected to know in the first place - then. . . why on earth would nothing happen at the end of it? Why go to all that trouble for no reason?"

"A prank? A practical joke?"

"We thought of that. Or, at least, my predecessor did. Her reasoning was that the point of this kind of prank is to put one over on the authorities - to be able to laugh at someone you normally wouldn't be allowed to laugh at."

"Makes sense."

"It does. And they never did."

"Never-"

"Laughed. She had their quarters bugged, their clothing wired, she put listening devices in every vehicle they were ever in, listened to hundreds of private conversations they had over the course of five years, and never, not once, did they laugh about their story. They were seventy years into the future, and all any of them felt about it was growing concern that they might never get back to 2133."

"That. . . does go a long way towards confirming the story."

"Quite. It also means that if the inter-dimensional portal existed, it must do so _only under certain conditions_."

"Well, yes."

"And _that_ , my dear, means it isn't magic. It is _science_. As wild and as improbable as it sounds, there must be a way to _replicate the correct conditions_."

I smile at him, "Is that when they brought you in?"

"No, not yet. My predecessor was anything but a fool, and she figured a great deal of it out on her own. She researched the place, found out what it was called, conducted the first fifteen experiments, and in the process developed and refined those experiments."

"Without success."

"Without the _desired result_ , my dear. There's quite a difference. But after ten years, yes, they needed a new approach. They tried several things, but didn't make much progress until one of the four travelers found a reference to Craigh na Dun in a book about Neo-paganism."

"Ah, so this is where the _Druids_ come into it!" I laugh, "I was wondering when they would be relevant."

"Quite so. Well, the traveler found that in Neo-paganism, standing stones figured in several nighttime rituals that were thought to have developed from the original Pagans practice of Human sacrifices."

"And the project manager listened to him?"

"Oh, all four of them had joined the project by that point. And who could be better for the job? They all became citizens of Cold Island 12, married, had families. One of their granddaughters is on the Council now."

"So they never got back?"

"I haven't finished the story, my dear."

"Sorry."

He smiles softly at me, and continues, "The problem was - well, one of several problems - was that if a religion was involved with discovering the correct set of conditions to control - or even just open - the portal, then they needed to talk to a member of that religion. Probably several members."

"Don't tell me _that's_ when they brought you in!"

Lamb smiles, wryly, "No. That's when they brought in Mrs. Graham's mother."

A great deal of my confusion suddenly evaporates.

"Ohhh. Well, that explains this morning, at least."

"Yes. We learned a lot from her. First and foremost we learned that Neo-pagans didn't practice Human sacrifices, because Pagans didn't either. . . but to a stranger's eye, they might occasionally _appear_ to do so. And so it might appear, if a nighttime procession led a single chosen individual to a ring of stones, and performed a long and elaborate set of rituals that culminated in the chosen person disappearing with a thunderclap. But she knew that almost always, the chosen one was traveling voluntarily, and she knew several stories about said travelers. Who had survived. _And come back_."

"You mean she. . . they. . . _knew_ how to use the time portal?"

"Ancient Pagans certainly did at some point. And she knew the basics of the rituals needed, even though she didn't know of anyone who had actually tried to travel through the stones. Some time in the distant past, the practice had fallen out of favour. Not surprising, really. But they had kept the rituals, even though they had developed and changed them throughout the centuries. Our team spent another ten years or so attempting to Travel, and they managed to get very close several times. Three different chosen travelers reported hearing things on the "other side" of the central, or "prime" stone, things that were definitely not happening at the current time! And six said they saw brief visions of the past or future while in contact with the prime stone. So clearly they were doing _something_ right."

"But they still didn't succeed?"

"No, but we knew returning was _possible_. I say "we" of course, but I learned all of this later."

"Yes, I understand, but. . . why couldn't they go back to their own time? What was missing?"

Lamb gives a deliberately over-dramatic flourish and a bow, "Why, an anthropologist, of course!"

I grin indulgently at him, "Braggart."

His face sobers, but his eyes are still twinkling, "Oh no, not that. Never that, my dear. Because you see, that was when they decided to close down the project."

"But. . ."

"They sent the project notes out to five known anthropologists and three archaeologists on the Skycities, and closed down active research here. And you know, I can't blame them. It had been almost thirty years, and all they had was a few interesting prophetic visions to show for it! Well, that and four upstanding citizens, which, while far from nothing, wasn't exactly justifying the budget."

"So what did you do?"

"Well first, I threw out everything they thought they knew. Then I read every interview, historical reference, factual reference, and experiment summary available. All of which took a _very_ long time, let me tell you. Much longer than it ought to have done, but then, I had another job at the time, which I did not neglect. But all the time and effort was quite worth it. Only after doing so could I venture to make an hypothesis."

"Which was?"

"That I needed to see Craigh na Dun for myself. Clearly, there were factors everyone had missed, and the only way to discover them would be to go there and see."

"Commence crazy time on Skycity 39," I say, sardonically.

"Yes," he says. And he still sounds far more proud of his ingenuity and daring than he does sorry about scaring eleven year old me.

The more I learn, the easier it's becoming to forgive him for that.

"The first thing I did when I got here was look up Mrs. Graham's mother, but the woman was dead by that time, poor soul. Fortunately, Mrs. Graham herself was in service at the manse, and more than willing to be my project consultant. It only took a week of local research and talking things over with her to discover one major flaw in every previous attempt too."

"Oh? And what was that?"

I have to admit, I'm deeply fascinated by all of this. The concept doesn't even seem crazy anymore.

"That every prospective traveler needed to be "scryed" - meaning have their future foretold by some sort of ritual means - palm reading is the classic method."

"But, surely. . . Mrs. Graham's mother knew how to do those things? Mrs. Graham knows how to do them, and her mother is the logical place for her to have learned."

"Oh yes, she knew how, but had always deemed a reading unnecessary, since "Everyone who has Traveled once is already among the Chosen.", as she said in the project notes. But as we discovered, that isn't always so. No, some people are destined to only Travel once, some can only Travel forward in time, some can only go backwards in time. Some can go back and forth multiple times, but cannot change history, some go back and forth and _must_ change history, and so on. There are as many different ways to time travel as there are people. And apparently a scry beforehand "primes the fabric of the aura" and allows for a clean break in the space-time continuum."

He says this all lightly enough, but so matter-of-factly that despite everything, I begin to feel incredulous again.

"You don't actually _believe_ in all this hocus-pocus, do you, Lamb?"

He pats the hand I still have resting in the crook of his elbow, "Oh no, dear. No. After all, what is there to believe in? I've _seen_ it. It works. It's all unquestionably real. No faith needed." He looks at me very seriously, "I know it all _seems_ like witchcraft, but it's actually the exact opposite. It's applied knowledge. Science, in fact."

We've reached the end of the path that leads through the main part of the battlefield. At this time of day, it seems there are very few people who want to make the whole trip around, and so we haven't met anyone during our walk.

I pick a faded wildflower, and drop it at the foot of the monument, where uncounted hundreds of others have done the same. There are two little piles of them next to the plaque, old, rotting flowers, colourless now, but still speaking aloud the power and meaning of this place. Now that Lamb has taken me into his confidence, there are fewer distractions in my mind, and I spend a moment contemplating where we are, and what I am actually seeing.

I remember studying the Battle of Culloden in history class when I was little. I don't remember so well for any of the usual reasons, but because my teacher had made a point of noting that the clan headstones which marked each mass burial pit were merely superficial gestures. No one had sorted the bodies into clans before shoveling them into graves.

At nine, this made me furious.

Now, standing here, I'm glad it happened that way.

With grass and bushes and trees as far as the eye can see, under a wild sky, and the sweep of the wind, the very bones of the earth seem free. Organizing the families of men who had died here would only have imposed a jarring note of chains - of forged steel in a world of earth and grass, soft purple flowers and pearl-grey clouds in a shining blue sky.

Lamb is right. Humankind lost a lot when we decided that Earth could be conquered.

But we lost unfathomably more when we decided other Humans should be.

Lamb takes my arm again, gently, and steers me down another path away from the old stone memorial.

"The monument I really wanted you to see is down this way."

It takes a few minutes for us to get there. We don't speak.

The monument for the Second Battle of Culloden is nothing like the first. Granted, the battle that ended Scotland's Third War of Independence was nothing like the first battle of Culloden either, even though they both happened on the same ground.

Most notably, the second time around, Scotland won.

The blocks of old rusted iron are stacked in an open square some five or six meters across. There is an arched opening in each wall, and no roof. The names of those who died have been painted on the metal in clear, weatherproof resin. The untarnished, silvery surface still shows clean though each name. Name, after name, after name. While all around them is rust and decay, these shine bright, and unstained.

Free.

Irony of ironies then, that after centuries of fighting for the right to call itself its own country again, Scotland's victory in the second battle of Culloden kicked off the Second Revolutionary Period, which led to the Unity War, which in turn led to WWIII, at the end of which all countries were abolished, and the majority of the survivors fled to the skies to escape the nuclear destruction they had wrought upon themselves.

One generation's freedom is another generation's bondage, I suppose.

I turn away from the monument. I've had quite enough of war for one day.

"Thank you," I say sincerely, as we walk away, "I'm glad you showed me that."

Lamb smiles, but doesn't reply.

We're both silent on the long walk back to the car.


	13. Homeward Bound

"You didn't finish the story."

We've been on the way back to town for at least a quarter of an hour already, and neither Lamb nor myself have been willing to break the somber spell the Culloden Battlefield cast over us. But eventually, my curiosity wins out.

"Where did I stop?" Lamb asks, still slightly abstracted.

"You had just discovered the importance of palm reading."

"Ah yes, the scrying."

Even so, he doesn't start talking again right away. The road he's chosen for our route home is a different one than we used to get to Culloden. The trees are thicker and taller along this path, with less underbrush. We're closer to the coastline too - between the stands of trees, I've caught an occasional far away glimpse of that haunting, impossible blue. At first I thought it was a distant misty hill, but the sun is too bright for any fog to settle, all the clouds too caught up in the late-morning breeze. Then Lamb opened the window glass, to let in the good air, and I caught the tang of salt in it, and realized what the blue thing was. I'm still not used to the changed color of it, so alive and alluring, even far away enough to be mistaken for a blue hill.

"Scrying, simple as it seems, was in fact the key - or rather one of several keys. It brought us success at once," Lamb says finally, with an inexplicable sigh.

"So you sent the four pilots back at last?"

"Not quite," he quirks a wry smile, "You see, by that point, only one wanted to go back, and even he was wary of us. Small blame to him - decades of an official government program hadn't brought him any nearer to returning home, and now a tiny independent group was telling him they had figured it out? I'd have been just as suspicious of us, to tell the truth. And we had changed the entire ritual by then, too. Originally, the selected Traveler just walked up to the central stone - no fanfare, no ceremony. The rest of the project team watched from wherever they had a good vantage point, recording systems were placed all throughout the stones, and no thought was given to the weather, the time of day, the season, or what state of mind any of the participants were in. Naturally, many of those things had already changed under my predecessor, but by the time Mrs. Graham and I had an updated ritual worked out, we could only attempt to send a Traveler during two three-week windows at opposite ends of the year - it had to be done at or near dawn - the weather must be clear and not too windy - the stone circle must be clean of everything but flowers and grass - the sun, the moon, and the Big Dipper must be in the sky - there must be a flowering or fruiting rowan tree growing within sight of the central stone - no less than seven trained ritual-dancers must perform the Firedawn rites - no observer was allowed within five paces of the stone ring - there could be no mechanical recording devices - and everyone, including the scryed Traveler, must be freshly bathed, dressed in natural fiber clothing, and carrying a token of focus or beauty."

My head is spinning, all of the requirements and details running together into noise. I can't keep the disbelief out of my voice, "But. . . why would all of that to-do even be necessary? The four people you knew for certain were time travelers managed to do so _by accident_. And they certainly weren't doing an elaborate song and dance routine to try and. . . bribe the Earth Goddess or whatever. So what's it all _for_?"

Lamb chuckles wryly, "We still don't know."

I gape at him, wide-eyed, "Not even the Druid people?"

"Them least of all."

"And you do it anyway?"

He shrugs, "If it _works_ , why not? And it does. We have a 75% success rate now."

I sigh, bemusedly, "Alright. What happened to this justifiably wary fighter pilot?"

"Well, Mrs. Graham read his palm, we did our song and dance routine," here he grins at me for a second, "The sun came up, the wind blew. . . and he disappeared."

"That's all?"

"Yes, it did carry the flavour of an anti-climax about it at the time too. He was there, and then he wasn't. It hardly seemed worth it. We had made a man disappear! Cheap conjurors can do as much. But the feeling rapidly dissipated when we all realized _we had in fact sent a man through time_. Unlike sending a man to the moon, we were unable to send cameras with him, so a mere disappearance was all we could realistically hope to see. But we had finally _done_ it. That was the main thing."

"Very satisfying for you."

"Yes," he says, thoughtfully, "It was. Until he reappeared two weeks later."

I laugh, feeling almost incapable of containing any more shock, "Does this story ever _end_ , Lamb?"

"I am beginning to think it doesn't, my dear."

"Okay then. Why was he back?"

"Because he wanted to be. You see, he hadn't actually gone back to his own time, he had jumped another 70 years into the future."

"Oh."

Lamb smiles tightly, "Yes, that was our reaction. He said he had spent four months in 2321, couldn't stand it, and decided to come back to us, if he could. We could understand that part, but the reason he didn't go back in time completely baffled us. That was when we started refining the scrying methods - figuring out each prospective Traveler's destiny, signs of their probable time-traveling course, etc."

"So he came back. . ."

Lamb nods, sympathetically, "Yes, he lived out the rest of his life here, and never Traveled again. In the end, I think he was as happy as anyone could be who'd had his experiences of life."

"Did he tell you _how_ he got back?"

"Yes, he did. Apparently it was a matter of walking up to the stone and letting it take him whenever it would."

" _Without_ all the fancy-dancing?"

"Indeed."

I click my tongue, "I don't like it. It's inconsistent."

"Mm, that's what I used to think too. But it was a sample size of one then. We have a considerably larger sample size now."

"So now what do you think?"

"Now, I think there is definitely a pattern. A complex, intricate pattern, with many more conditional elements we haven't yet discovered."

"You mean there might be _more_ requirements and things you have to do?"

"Yes. Because you see, he wasn't a fluke. Everyone who has come back through the stones since then, has told us they got into the future. _Only_ the future. Never the past."

"Except when traveling back to you."

"Except when traveling back to us."

My mind is buzzing, dredging up all the statistics courses I've ever taken.

"How many people have you sent through?"

"Since adding the scry, we've successfully transported twenty-four individuals, but most of them have made more than one trip."

"Okay, then how many successful trips?"

"Just over sixty."

"Out of how many attempts?"

"Eighty-three."

"Is it always the same time interval they travel forward, or is it variable?"

"It is highly variable. Anywhere between ten years and three hundred years have been reported."

"How about the time they appear to be gone? The time that passes here between their leaving and returning. Is that variable too?"

"It is, but not by very much. They're almost always gone between ten and nineteen days."

"And have there been _any_ anomalous trips?"

"Well. . ." he shrugs one shoulder, ruefully, "One."

"Lamb? What happened?"

"That's just it. Nothing. She never came back."

His voice is heartrendingly sad.

"Oh. . . Lamb. . ."

"She showed _all_ the signs of being able to get into the past, not just some. Her scry, I mean. It was the first one to do so. And she was eager to try. But it's been three years, and she hasn't come back yet. We've all of us pretty much stopped hoping she ever will."

I know guilt and regret when I hear it. I also know how they tear at your insides, making a growing void you can never fill. I reach over and grip his shoulder for a second, just like he did mine on the trip out. I want to say it isn't his fault.

But I know it is.

Oh, not that a girl might be trapped, or dead, in a time or place such that she'll never be found. Not that she volunteered to go. And not that she hasn't come back. But that she was ever in danger of being lost like that in the first place. That's on him, and he knows it.

"Did. . . you. . ." he says, slowly, "Did you hear Mrs. Graham and me arguing this morning?"

"Partially, yes."

He nods, sadly, "You. . . your scry. . . shows all of the signs too."

A cold pit opens up in my stomach. And here I thought I was becoming immune to shock. . .

"Mrs. Graham wanted me to explain everything to you right there and then. I didn't want to do it at all. I've just found you again, my dear. . . the last bit of family I have. . . I can't lose you too. . ."

He grips the steering yoke hard, his knuckles whitening.

I've got my breath back, but the cold adrenaline is still coursing through me. It makes my next words sound much harsher than I mean them to be.

"What makes you think I _want_ to time travel, Lamb?"

"Well, I. . ." he gives me a double take, "I thought. . . but of course, I shouldn't have assumed. Feel free to disregard the fears of an old man, then."

"But regarding them is exactly what I _am_ doing."

He gives me a stern look, "Claire?"

I do my best to match his tone, "Lamb? Think about it for a minute. I know what it's like to lose someone you care about to sudden and unfortunate circumstance - more than once, in fact."

He flushes a dark, forbidding red. "Of course. My apologies, dear. Of course you know. . ."

" _Which_ is _why_ , Uncle," I say, emphasizing every word, "I am the least likely person to deliberately subject you to another such loss."

The expression he turns to me now is strange. Thankful, but disappointed. Contemplative, but at a loss.

"I'd been hoping for years we'd find another one who might be able to. . . and now. . . it's you. . ."

"Lamb, _why_ is getting into the past so important?"

"Because in the past we might CHANGE things!" he explodes, pounding the dashboard mercilessly with one fist, while the other has a death grip on the steering yoke.

The car swerves sharply. He calms at once, steadying the vehicle.

"I'm sorry dear. But living here. . . seeing how the Earth used to be. . . what once might have belonged to _everyone_ , not just a chosen few. . . Clean water. Clean air. Trees. Animals. Flowers. Ground that isn't scorched and poisoned. Food that doesn't have to be processed to hell and back before it contains the proper level of nutrients. Pure colors and healing light. And all the while. . . knowing. . . _knowing_ that we. . . _we made the choice to destroy it all_. And for what? Nothing, in the end. We chose _senseless_ oblivion! If there's a chance, just _ONE_ chance. . ." he breaks off, and swallows hard a few times.

"But you're right, of course," his tone is so mournfully sardonic it scarcely sounds like him anymore, "The government didn't reinstate the project just because there's a chance we might prevent nuclear Armageddon. That's _my_ dream. They did it because that first pilot who came back brought a highly advanced bit of radio technology with him. And the Council saw a chance to finally compete with the Skycities in terms of technology production. And trade deals."

His bitterness is intensely palpable. I put on as much halfhearted cheer as I can muster. "Well, you know what they say. Capitalism is a hell of a drug."

"Yes." He sighs, visibly shrugs off the great depressive mood that's come over him, and forces a dreary smile. "It hasn't been all bad, of course. Few things ever are, really. Nine years ago one of the Travelers brought back a device that could suspend AR gel in a force-field grid, while harvesting the free energy to maintain the field generator. Somehow he managed to convince the Council that just reverse-engineering it and selling it to the Skycities would be a waste of its potential. I don't know if you noticed flying in, but we've reclaimed hundreds of square miles of open ocean with it."

I smile, remembering, and say softly, "Yes, I noticed. That's too tame a word, but, I noticed."

"We've reintroduced fifteen species of scaled fish, eight sea plants, three bottom feeders, and two mollusks. All of them seem to be thriving. We've even opened a pearl fishery, of all things."

"That's far and away more than I ever thought would happen in my lifetime. . ."

"Well, it's not saving the world, but. . . it's something."

"It's saving part of the world. That's pretty amazing, if you ask me."

He doesn't respond, but eventually, his grip on the steering yoke relaxes slightly, his knuckles no longer white.

The trees along this stretch are taller and darker-skinned than those I've seen so far today. They also seem to grow in more orderly rows than the normal forest does, and strangely, every so often, we pass a large rectangle full of nothing but tiny saplings, all a meter tall or less. There is no undergrowth at all through here, the ground is cleanly swept, and all the full-grown trees have their branches trimmed up so high they seem less like giant plants and more like the great structural piers that support a Skycity Core.

Nothing about this stretch of forest feels like the natural wildness I've so quickly come to expect from Cold Island 12. No, this feels more like a. . . farm.

And then, we pass a roped-off section where half the trees have been cut down, their long columns stacked off to the side, and there are half a dozen men, busily cutting down more.

"No!" I shout, aghast, "What are they _doing_?" I twist in my seat, unable to look away from the horrible scene until it disappears behind a curve in the road. Then I whirl back to stare my dismay at Lamb.

He glances back at me, slightly bewildered, "It looked like they were clearing a tract that's ready to be sent to the sawmill. What's wrong with that?"

"Why. . . they. . . I mean. . ." I'm incoherent with rage, sorrow and confusion, " _Why_ are they cutting down the trees?"

Lamb shrugs, indifferent, "For planks, boards and other construction lumber, for firewood, paper, animal bedding - there's all manner of things trees are used for."

"Oh. . . I. . . didn't know that meant cutting down the big ones. . ."

"Only the ones growing on tree-farm land. Except for the few wild ones that must be cut to maintain a healthy forest, of course."

My sudden panic eases, "I _thought_ it looked like a farm though here."

"Yes, quite. They only grow a special fast-growing hybrid tree. . . I don't know what it's called, actually. . . And here's the mill itself."

Two great cubical buildings heave into view, one on either side of the narrow road, both sheathed in metal siding, and painted stark white. A slender bridge of some kind, attended by a myriad of pipes of all sizes joins the two buildings halfway up - at least five meters above the roadway. The twin yards are stacked with piles upon piles of sawn planks, heaps of scrap and sawdust, and everywhere there are cars on dedicated tracks that crisscross the shared enclosure. The smell is sharp and antiseptic, mingled with the grease and hot metal of well-used machinery. A dozen or so men labor in the yards, loading up cars, shoveling scrap, manoeuvring loads of raw logs.

All this I absorb in the few seconds it takes us to pass by, and one more thing too - a sign at the far end of the right-hand yard, painted a sullen yellow and green, neatly, but somewhat faded and peeling now, reading, "Cocknammon Sawmill & Lumberyard".

It all seems regular and innocent enough - a factory for wooden boards, what could be so bad about that? - but something about the place strikes me as impossibly evil, though I don't know why.

"What a terrible place," I say, unable to shake off the feeling, and unwilling to let it go unremarked upon.

"Well, it's a much better place now than it used to be, my dear."

I wind my arms around myself to keep from shivering. The wind is cold through the open windows, and though the sun is bright, it has only a wintry force behind it.

"What did it used to be? An abattoir?"

Lamb looks uncharacteristically grim, "For souls, maybe. The buildings used to be the main checkpoint along this road during the British Cold War, occupied - or should I say _laired in_ \- by a squad of Her Majesty's Peace Agents. Peace!" He laughs at the word, hard and humourlessly, "They rounded up anyone and everyone they thought might be of English or other foreign descent and deported them. They issued arrest warrants for all manner of people, and punished them without trial - or a bare show of it, which was worse - and generally went about the countryside stealing, wreaking havoc, and beating people up, innocent or not, helpless or not, legitimate Scot or not."

I don't wonder I felt residual evil from the place, but. . . "I don't understand. Why would they do such things?"

"It is not for us common folk to understand the forms that systemic revenge can take."

Now that's a word I didn't expect. "Revenge? But I thought Queen Victoria _wanted_ Scotland to be independent. She wanted _every_ part of the United Kingdom to be independent, even the territories. That's why the British Cold War even happened to begin with, right? In Scotland, it was the Clan Lairds that pushed things to the point of battle. . . wasn't it?"

Lamb sighs, "They say history is written by the victors, but that isn't always the case, my dear. And sometimes, it's difficult to know who the victors even were."

"But. . ."

"Listen, on the Skycities we still use the terms "Third Scottish War of Independence" and "British Cold War" interchangeably, don't we? Like one was just another part of the other?"

"Y-yes. We do."

"Well the war _in Scotland_ was anything but cold. In Wales? Or Jersey? Or Gibraltar? In those places, the dissolution of the United Kingdom happened without bloodshed. Slowly, sometimes. Bitterly, quite often. But not bloodily. Here, on the other hand, well. . . here, only Sassenachs _ever_ call it the "British Cold War", for very good reasons. You might as well sit down in a pub today in Glasgow and say loudly just how much you love it here in England. They'll punch you in the face and throw you out as fast as look at you."

I look about me at the soft, muted colors of late autumn, and the sunny, mild sky, and imagine the ancient cruelties, done by people I don't know, to a country I've never seen before, during a time I was powerless to stop.

"Lamb?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Is that sort of thing. . . the Peace Agents abusing their power, I mean - is that. . . what you hope to send people back in time to prevent?"

A look of inexpressible longing spreads over his face, and I know his answer before he says it.

"Yes. Improve the past to improve the future. I don't mean changing anything grand, or doing anything self-sacrificially heroic, and I certainly don't expect any time traveler to risk their lives for something they aren't certain they're completely committed to, but. . . well. Any reduction of evil _has_ to be an improvement."

"That being the case. . ." I look at this newfound bit of family of mine, and try to say my next words as gently as I can, "Don't you think. . . I. . . we. . . should re-think whether or not I should. . . try and. . . well, _try_?"

He presses his lips together, and doesn't say anything as he steers the car smoothly into the yard of the manse. He hands me courteously out of the car, into the house, and down the hallway to the kitchen before responding.

"You'll need to observe a ritual first - before participating as a. . . possible traveler. It's procedure."

I nod, afraid to interrupt.

"Tomorrow night is Samhain - the opening night of our second three-week window for this year."

I sit down at the kitchen table, and he bustles about, cobbling together a lunch of this and that, artlessly uncaring about flavour pairings or presentation.

He pauses before handing me a thoroughly indescribable sandwich, and a tall glass of cold milk.

"I'll. . . tell Mrs. Graham. She'll make sure you're ready."

I sip at the milk, wondering if, in context, "ready" is even possible. . .


	14. The Lass That Is Gone

The rest of that day and most of the next pass in a blur.

Years later, I can look back and remember that after coming home from Culloden, I met a small herd of adorable Highland cows, pastured alongside Mrs. Graham's three prize nanny goats, and that right before tea Mr. Graham showed me the vegetable garden and greenhouse, and let me pick a tomato. The next morning, I can recall that Uncle Lamb explained orange marmalade at breakfast, and then spent much of the forenoon introducing me to the seemingly endless parade of people making deliveries to the manse that day. A boy from the fishmonger's shop, a man from the butcher shop, two young women from the grocer's shop, a man with parts for the groundcars, a girl delivering mail, an older woman delivering clean laundry - I can remember all their names and faces now, but at the time, there were so many of them, and so many new experiences for me, that by sundown of my third day on Cold Island 12, I'm afraid I could remember little of any of it except some bright colors, vague shapes, and cheery, accented voices.

I do know that tea this afternoon was hasty and plain, but plentiful and substantial. Apparently we won't be having supper.

"Weel then, come along and we'll get you bathed and prepared to see the Firedawn Dance, dearie," says Mrs. Graham, as soon as the meal is over, "You'd best go to bed as soon as possible too - getting up two hours before dawn is no joke - if you don't get your sleep in, ye'll be knackered the rest of the day."

She hustles me upstairs and into my bedroom before I've gathered the energy or wit to reply. I go over to my bed, noticing some new things there. A plain white linen gown is laid out, next to some freshly washed underclothes and a floor-length hooded green cloak. A pair of soft leather slippers and a small close-knitted bag of raw, unbleached wool sit nearby on the bedside table.

"Ritual clothes, dearie," says Mrs. Graham, noticing my interest, "You must only put them on right before we leave. First we need to find you a token, and then I'll draw your bath."

"Lamb did mention something about a token," I say, "But I confess I didn't ask anything more specific about it. There were. . . a lot of other questions that needed to be asked first, if you know what I mean."

"That I do dearie. Your token must be something that is either beautiful, or makes you think of something beautiful," she picks up the little drawstring bag for a moment, then puts it back on the table, smoothing it flat, "I have a carved piece of quahog shell my Grandfather said was made in America before the Unity War, Lamb carries a little illustrated pocket edition of Just So Stories with gilded edges, I know several of the girls carry rings, and sometimes necklaces or other jewelry, and most of the young men have either a pocketknife, or a picture of their sweethearts." She smiles indulgently, "But yours doesn't have to be any of those things. It just has to be something you like looking at, or thinking about."

I wander about the room, picking up one thing and another, considering each momentarily before putting it back down. "What exactly are these tokens _for_ , Mrs. Graham?"

"For focusing the aura," she says, without a single trace of sarcasm, "Any type of Fire dance draws up a lot of ley power, of course, but a Firedawn ritual releases stellar, solar _and_ lunar vibrations in addition to that. Bringing a dissipate soul into such a convergence of energies would be most unhealthy, not to mention dangerous to the rest of us."

I blink. I understood most of those words, but I caught almost none of their meaning. I decide not to ask.

"Alright," I say instead, "Can this thing be of any size?"

"You must be able to carry it," she says, "That's the only requirement."

I look around the room again. There are plenty of beautiful things. A carved wooden box full of fragrant dried rose petals. A small pottery bowl glazed in a smooth, matte black, and a deep, rich green. A slender beeswax candle in burgundy and gold stripes. A tiny pillow made of a thick, silvery-grey cloth I have learned is called "velvet". A wafer-thin slice of an amethyst geode bigger than my palm that I only discovered yesterday, and instantly fell in love with.

But none of them seem right. They're pretty things, but all toys. Nothing real. Nothing _mine_.

If this is about focus, or attachment, or. . . well, _meaning_ , then, something new isn't going to work. In fact, there's only one possible option.

I go over to one of the room's large cupboards, and root around until I find the bag I brought with me. My mother's old steel bottle with chipped enamel is sitting on top of my spare pair of boots. I lift it, and hold it out to show Mrs. Graham.

"Will this do?"

She smiles, and gently takes it from me.

"Admirably," she says. She slips it into the knitted bag, and pulls the drawstring tight over it. It just fits.

"Perfect," she says, smiling, "Now, let's get you bathed."

"Oh, yes," I say, eagerly, "I've been wondering where your steamshowers are."

"Steamshowers?" she asks over her shoulder as she leads me into the closet room, "Why would you bathe with- Oh! You mean sanitizing chambers? We have two downstairs, but we only wash dishes and clothes in them. You _could_ clean yourself in one, I suppose - now that I think of it, there is a stetting for that and all - and you'd certainly get rid of any germs that way! But none of us here bathe like that."

"But then, how. . ."

I break off, for she has reached the large vat on the expanse of white tile that dominates that side of the long room. There are three small buttons on the wall - a pale blue one, a white one, and an orange one. She pushes the orange one, and at once, clear, steaming hot water cascades out from a recessed opening in the side of the vat.

No. . . the tub.

The _bath tub_.

I've read of such things, of course, but not even in Central Township did we. . .

"Your house has _running water_?" I gasp, incredulous.

"Oh, yes," she smiles, as though this is nothing, "This house is over three-hundred years old, dearie. All homes were built with water plumbing then."

"But. . ."

"We're only allowed to turn it on two days a week, and the residents are limited to one full tub each on those days, but that's more than enough to keep us all clean, and with sponge baths in between, we make do, dearie, we make do."

I advance to the side of the tub, watching the swirling water and breathing in the soft steam, "You do considerably more than that, I think, Mrs. Graham."

She smiles, but doesn't reply, instead collecting two small bottles, one palm-sized coloured brick, and one small and two large cloths from the shelves and dressing table along the wall, and hands them all to me.

At my wildly confused stare, she takes pity on me, pointing to and naming each thing.

"Hair soap, face soap, body soap, wash cloth, and towels."

"Thank you," I say, averting my eyes with embarrassment, "We don't have things like this on the Skycities, I'm afraid."

Mrs. Graham blinks, and starts back, unbelieving, "Soap?"

"Oh, no," I laugh, "We have _soap_ , it just isn't _like this_."

"Towels?"

"When you bathe with steam, you don't need towels."

"Oh, aye?" she sounds only mildly curious, "Well, I'll leave you to your bath, dearie."

She pushes the white button, and the water stops. She pats my shoulder as she leaves. I watch her out, and then, for the first time in my life, I submerge my whole body in hot water.

It's like nothing I've ever done, or even imagined before. Not the peace of skysurfing, nor the refreshment of putting on newly clean, warm clothes can compare with it. Even Frank, and all my memories of the whispered words and liquid heat of making love with him, somehow pale in comparison to this present pleasure.

I wait for the cold, yawning emptiness that Frank's memory always conjures in me, but for the first time in the nearly five years since he died, it doesn't happen. I wait again, and shiver out of pure habit, for the icy void in my heart still does not appear.

I rinse away the gritty soapsuds of the face cleanser, a glow in my chest where before there was only loneliness and bereavement.

A bath?

A _bath_ is all it takes to heal my sorrow?

Impossible.

No. No, it must be the past three days. So much has happened, I have learned so much about so many things - is it any wonder I currently have no room for the grief that was previously my only companion? I'm merely distracted at the moment.

I pause in the middle of opening the second bottle of soap. Suddenly the spell of magic and mystery that has covered the last few days falls away, and I see clearly what a fool I've been.

Distracted? Yes, by an old man's fancies and an old woman's conjuring tricks!

And, to be brutally honest, distracted by the notion that _I_ might be some sort of special chosen one who can save the world with time travel!

Time travel indeed!

I feel deeply ashamed of myself. What an idiot I've been! Lamb is mad. Must be. Mad as a hatter on acid, always has been, and I just didn't notice. When have I ever seen a madman, after all? How am I to know what one looks like? Oh, he's harmless enough, but mad. Mad clear through. And Mrs. Graham must enable his delusions because he lets her work her witchcraft and doesn't complain about things. That whole story he span out for me - bosh, from beginning to end, of course. And I swallowed it, like a green child who has never seen a dove appear out of a hat, or a street magician pick the card you chose.

I sigh, and massage the liquid soap into my hair.

I'll watch this ritual tonight - and no doubt Uncle has built it up to some fantastical degree, very likely it is only some Neo-pagan light show - and in a few weeks, I'll leave, home to Skycity 15, no harm done. Besides a bruised pride, of course, but I can deal with that.

Then I can go back to mourning my husband in peace.

I scrub and rinse all over, then step out to dry off. I've never been so _drippy_ after bathing before. I pat myself inexpertly with the towels, longing for a hot-air drying stall. The floor-length mirrors reflect the long horizontal lines of the shelves on the opposite wall, looking from my vantage point like the construction guidelines drawn when plotting out a picture in one-point perspective.

I take a fresh towel from the table, and wrap my hair in it. I've had quite enough of one perspective. Time to get back to the real world.

With a sigh, I go back to the main room. I survey the clothes laid out for tonight and shrug. It can't hurt to go along with it one last time, can it? No need to spoil their fun, even if it is at my expense.

Suddenly, I am desperately sleepy. I push between the covers without even bothering to unwrap my hair.

The dim warmth of the room draws me forth. I rise and hover over the bed, to answer someone who has called my name. I stand near the window, looking out, looking back, looking forward.

I know I am dreaming when Frank comes to me, cradling my face in his slender, artist's hands that were never given the opportunity for anything but hard labour, and his thumbs brush the sides of my mouth, just like he always used to do.

"Come back to me," he whispers, "Go, so you can come back to me."

He dissolves away outward, and I whirl around. I must find him, go to him. My husband, my love, my loss. . . I thrash about, running without going anywhere, struggling against the bonds of time and space.

A hand emerges from the aether and steadies me. Pulls me toward itself. . . himself. A new man is revealed. Taller, broader than Frank, his hand thicker and coarser, infinitely suited to hard labour, and content to make his living doing so, as Frank never was. I catch a glimpse of electric blue eyes before he roughly pulls my mouth to his, husking one word before he kisses me like I've never been kissed.

"Claire!"

In three seconds I belong to him more then I've ever belonged to anyone. A fiery, tumultuous longing blooms in my belly.

Who are you? I want to ask, but I am mute. Where are you?

I pull away from him so I can continue my search.

"Claire!"

I know I am dreaming, but nothing in my life has ever been more real.

"Claire, dearie!"

I open my eyes to a gently smiling, and _very_ un-dreamlike Mrs. Graham.

"It's time to get ready!" She turns on the lamp at the bedside table, "I'll leave you to get dressed."

And then she's gone again.

I sigh. The dream is gone with her, and all that's left is this sham of a time-travel ritual. Too late to turn back, though. I get up, and begin to put on the laid-out clothes.

What an idiot I am! To dream of men, especially Frank, here, and now of all times!

Frank is dead, and there is no one else out there I want to marry.

Although, oddly, I still don't feel my usual chill of loss when I think of Frank, and I _do_ still feel the warm bloom of desire in my stomach from kissing that strange unknown. . .

I shake myself. Get back on track, Beauchamp! Clothes! Phony ritual! Then you can enjoy the rest of your time here with no more mythic gobbledygook!

Yes. And then?

I settle the long cloak around my shoulders, and pick up the knitted bag with my enamel bottle in it.

"And then," I say quietly to myself, "You go home. . . and do whatever it takes to find a job that'll get you out of that awful tent."

I nod. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

Uncle and Mrs. Graham are waiting for me in the kitchen. She looks unexpectedly modern, frumpy, and out of place in the long lines of her cool linen dress and warm woolen robe. Almost as though the everyday Mrs. Graham herself is the costume, and she has not yet made her crucial transformation. And then, equally unexpectedly, Uncle has the air of an ancient sage about him, not because of the clothes, only accentuated by them. Something in the tilt of his head, the set of his mouth, how he moves while escorting me to the door, suggests a full-fledged Merlin, hawk-eyed and triumphant at the height of his power, and in full control of an entire kingdom of lesser men.

Outside the manse, there is a small crowd of people waiting for us. In the flickering light of two flaming torches, I see faces - some old, some young, most somewhere in the middle. The cloaks and low light obscure gender, but many varied heights are represented, some taller than even Uncle, and one or two so small I wonder if there are children in this procession. Everyone is silent, somber, dressed alike in white and dark green. Someone hands Uncle one of the torches, and he slowly waves it, pronouncing while he does so a few long, strange words, in a language I don't know.

I don't ask for a translation. Neither does anyone else.

Then we all begin walking, toward the hill of Craigh na Dun. I'm unsure of the way, exactly, but I'm not worried. Everyone else knows.

For a few minutes there is no sound but the rustle of our feet in the grass, but then, starting in time with our footsteps, and so softly I almost can't hear it, the slow rolling beat of drums rise up around us.

It rolls up, higher, louder, but not faster, setting our pace, easy and free, but steady, primal.

And then the flutes begin.

The high, sweet piping is breathy and piercingly sad, drawing down the gleam of the stars upon a still, moonless night.

This music calls out my soul with reproach - this is no mere empty show, not some shabby conjuror's trick. It is the timeless sound of long ago, a paean that cries aloud to the clumsy, crude world outside, that things of infinity and true importance still exist.

It would be the song of lovers, save for its haunting call to action.

The pace set is slow, but constant, and it brings us within sight of the hill in good time. We foregather under a rowan tree - shown in the ruddy, flickering torchlight as nothing more than a lace canopy of golden strands above us. Uncle gestures wordlessly to the group about him, and they all know what they must do. Without stopping their playing, the musicians trail out, and around, until they form an enormous circle surrounding the hill at many paces. Those that have remained here under the rowan have produced small brass bowls suspended along their rims by long chains. One by one, they each present their dish to my uncle, who puts a handful of something in it, and touches it with the torch. Small steady flames leap up from each dish as he does so. Each woman holds her dish by the chains, so that the flames swing freely, some distance from their bodies, and close to the ground.

He gestures them forward, and two by two they begin to approach the stone-crowned hill.

I didn't notice when the first torch had been extinguished, but now Uncle smothers the second in a small pile of sand, plunging the entire glade into an indigo, starlit gloom.

His hand takes my arm as we follow them for a little ways, and then he holds me back. I can hear the nearest drummer, away off to my left, and the nearest whistling piper, a little further to my right.

While they are still en route to the floor of Craigh na Dun, the moon rises, and lit by that pale silver sickle in the Southern sky, we see seven fire dancers, and one lone shadow without a flame, slowly climb to their places.

A single high, piping flute rises out of the dark, both shrill and sweet, incisive and demanding.

Then all at once, patterns of fire erupt all around and in between the stones. Silhouettes of the women dancing can hardly be seen, so fast and so intricate is the dance. The pace of the flutes quickens, followed by the beat and roll of the drums. The flames flash, the white-robed dancers move as sure as ocean waves, and the patterns of fire leave lines of blue in my eyes.

Only once do the flames blaze bright enough to illuminate a face. A single glimpse only, but that is all I need.

It is a face I know, and yet. . . it is also the face of a stranger.

The white lines of her dress fit her now - she has thrown off this world, and become Chaos, Mother of Time.

For this is the true Mrs. Graham revealed - an ancient, ageless wise woman, clear-eyed and kindly in her intent, fell-handed and remorseless in her execution. Never, save at the last exigency of need, would she proclaim a malediction, but to once fall under that curse would be annihilation, no question.

Slowly, inexorably, I fall back into enchantment. Here are the breath and bones of a race and time so ancient they can be measured in the lives of stars. Here is the full power of dominion over creation made manifest by God Himself.

Time?

What is time?

No more than depth, no more than height, no more than width.

A portal in time is no more than a door, if you know how to open it.

The obscuring layers of science and history fall away, and the lines of power and light gleam though the dark, like the blood and soul of the universe. The moon and stars are drawn down, so close to this world they lend their voices to the keening flutes, so near to hand they might be touched, if only you knew how.

The tiny whirling flames draw into a new pattern, and the small flameless shadow rises to the center of the circle, even as the leader of the Dance comes forward. In a feat of timing only a little less than a solar eclipse, this lead dancer who used to be Mrs. Graham lifts her fire dish in triumphant salute, just as the sun breaches the rim of hills, and ignites the circle of stones with burning, celestial gems.

A breathtaking current of power strikes the music dumb.

In the vibrating hush, the nameless chosen one comes forward, walking down the infinite shadow the new sun casts from the tall central stone. She raises her palms, submissive, not defiant, and reverently presses her hands against the slim wall of rock.

And nothing happens.

For a few seconds, no one quite understands or believes it.

Then, as one, we all inhale, in shock and disappointment.

The spell of power dissolves, subsumed into the bones of the Earth and retreated across the vastness of space again, waiting to be called forth once more when the time is right.

A gently murmuring crowd of dancers and musicians gather over by the magnificent rowan tree, now revealed to be alive with a rampant crop of red berries. A few of the golden moths I saw my first night here flutter about in shock at the new sunlight, then retreat again to roost until sundown.

I feel I have no place among the discussion here, with my uncle quizzing each individual about things I cannot understand, and everyone else milling about, wondering wildly what went wrong.

I look about me, and find I do want a closer look at the ring of stones, at least.

The air is cool, and sweet with the scents of morning. The dew is still all over the grass and stones at the crown of the hill. Perhaps the day will be clear enough to warm the damp away, but it is so late in the year that I doubt it. I turn my back to the newly risen sun, and look away off into the hills to the West. The blue mists of early morning still lie between the branches of the trees, like a wispy nightgown. The pale clumps of stone outcrops echo the few knots of puffy clouds in the sky.

So it all was just a light show after all. Just a display put on for a visitor.

No, not _just_ that. There _had_ been power in that dance and in that music. The girl who had raised her hands to the stone had clearly been expecting _something_ to happen that didn't happen.

The consternation I can hear in my uncle's voice, even from over here, is very real.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny silver flash in the pale blue Western sky.

I smile. There are few celestial bodies I know much about, but this is Venus, the Star of Morning. Frank's favourite planet. He always said that if we could only muster the will to attempt it, the Human race might go there, and survive, thanks to our Skycity technology, which might easily be modified into Venusian cloud-cities.

It was nothing but a dream, but I let him dream it.

That tiny twinkling silver flame will never know the presence of Humanity. Thank God.

As I turn to go back down the hill, I step into the long shadow of the central stone, to save my eyes the sun's too-bright glare. A wind has picked up, and I shiver a little in the sudden chill. It pushes away the low murmuring sound of the discussions still going on near the rowan tree. Save for the smooth brushing sweep of the wind, there is silence in the stone circle.

What, I wonder, would it actually be like? To rend lose from the bonds of time and drop through dimensions unknown to man?

What if it _were_ possible?

What if it was not just a dream?

I pace slowly closer to that imposing wall of stone.

What if. . . time travel was real?

A low, keening call seems to come from the rock itself, ringing as the wind whistles past.

In a trance, I raise my hands, moving ever closer to the rough rectangle, haloed about with the golden glory of the morning sun.

It couldn't possibly be wrong to _try_ , could it?

The breeze roars in my ears, the ringing of the stones pounding in my head, louder and more powerful than the drums.

The last thing I hear is Lamb, shouting over the wind, "Claire, no!"

But he is too late. Fate has its hold on me.

My fingers touch the grey, unyielding surface.

A great bell clangs, and black aether itself opens up before my eyes, and swallows me whole.


	15. The Fall

_For a moment I think I have been struck by lightning._

_And then I know it's worse. I have entered a world of lightning._

_The air is sharp and acid on my tongue, the sky a void of black, but the rest of existence is a crackling mass of blue-white gouts of flame, spiking jaggedly all around, for as far as I can see._

_I don't know if I'm falling or floating, but there is no ground, only lines that burn, great rivers of electric power, clapping, crashing, exploding._

_I'm definitely falling._

_A blade of white strikes straight though my heart, and I am vaporized, rent apart, made into tiny particles projected across the boundless nothing of space, just as surely as the endlessly boiling skin of a star._

_I am too small to contain the scream that tears from my throat._

_I fall as dew, as a meteor, as dusk, as colliding planets._

_I fall between now and forever, for as long as dream, and as brief as eternity._

_I fall. . ._

_I fall. . ._

_I fall. . ._

_My soul echoes to itself, and I plummet yet again._

I open my eyes into the blinding glare of sunlight, and collapse onto my hands and knees. There is grass. There is soil. There is light.

That is all I know for quite some time.

Then, I begin to know that I am breathing, that I am wearing clothes, that the sun is warm and the ground is cold. My vision slowly clears, and I can see that I am in a glade. A wide ring of stones atop a small hill, in the midst of an expanse of grassy fields, and trees, and open sky. Gingerly, I stand, only gradually trusting my feet to carry my weight. For an instant I move too fast, and stumble back a step. I would have fallen, but a wall of rock supports me.

Wildly, I look up at the roughly rectangular shape of it.

It is only then that I know.

I am on the other side of the central pillar of Craigh na Dun, with nothing but the clothes I wear, and _no idea when in all of history I am_. I have Traveled.

Traveled though time.

I cry out with the impossibility of it. With the hard, cold reality of it.

I wrench myself upright, and spin around, placing my hands on the stone.

Nothing happens.

I run around to the other side, and try again.

Nothing happens again.

Stranded!

And worse, stranded by my own thoughtlessly enthralled curiosity.

Stupid!

A cold wind, heavy with the scent of leaf-mould, sweeps through the ring of stones. It smells like the wind did around the manse yesterday. I have only been on Cold Island 12 three days, but I have at least learned that this is a seasonal odour. I consider. It is still morning, it is still late fall, it is still planet Earth. Inverness - or at least where Inverness should be - is within walking distance. Whether I am in the future or the past, no matter how distant from my own time, I can work to fit in, and find a way to deal with whatever comes.

After all, I'm not going to roll into town and try to steal a boat, am I?

I've heard this story - I can figure out what to do.

Survival is possible. Even going back is possible. Common, to hear Lamb tell it.

To have ever doubted him seems foolish now.

But either way, survival comes first.

I tread carefully down the hill - more carefully than I went up, alas! - and look about me to see how much is different, what is still the same, and what can be learned from those things.

There is no fruiting rowan tree anywhere in sight, nor is the sickle moon visible. There are several long, thin lines of cloud in the sky, however. I only know of two things that make such skytrails, meaning that either the mid-atmosphere satellite grid the Skycity Council keeps idly promising to build finally _did_ get built, or, jet-powered flight is common here.

So I know I am in a time where technology has at least advanced to airplanes. That means I can count on the existence of antibiotics and toilet tissue, thank _heaven_. I don't think I could live in a past - if this is the past - where plants can be listed according to how comfortable they are to wipe with.

"Thimbleberry, mullein, corn husk and aster," I say in a faint sing-song, "They're the best when your a-"

I stop, laughing a little at myself. This is not the time to be remembering Professor Shannon, nor her tendency to turn the day's botany lesson into a dirty poem.

The grass here seems just as overgrown as I've always seen it, and the sky is the same deep, clear blue. That means that I am probably either in the future, or some time before the Unity War. Scotland became a Cold Island because its early adoption of a NETT grid - the predecessor of our modern Safnet systems - blocked the majority of the nuclear bombardment the North Atlantic region suffered during the Unity War and WWIII. One minor drawback, however, was that they changed the refraction angle for solar light - thus turning the sky green for most of the day. Harmless, but distinctive. A much worse drawback was that in addition to nuclear radiation, the first generation of NETT grids blocked so much UV and infrared light that they inhibited healthy plant growth. For a good twenty years or so, starting during the Unity War, the sky would not have been this blue, and the grass and trees here would hardly have been this lush. In fact, I happen to know the Light Famine damage took a long while to correct - until 20 years after WWIII, at least.

So, I am either after those problems were corrected, or before the technology had been installed in the first place.

But can the lack of a rowan tree be put down to the Light Famine, or have I merely arrived beyond either end of the lifespan of that one tree? It had been large, and very beautiful - I'd estimate at least 70 years old. So, it might be possible for me to be in the past, between approximately 2150 and 2200. . . but then, why those long, thin lines of clouds that span the entire sky? By WWIII jet powered flight was laughably obsolete, but grav-cancelling drone constructs big enough to leave a trail like that? Let alone several? A distant hope for the future, at best. Even in my time they're _still_ almost too expensive to be quite reasonable, crystolic-fusion reactors being so notoriously expensive to miniaturize and all. . .

Then I am either well into the future, or. . .

Jet engines became common in the mid to late 20th century. Conceivably, I could be anywhere from 1960 to 2093, the year before crystolic fusion was discovered.

As for the moon - or, more accurately, the lack of one, I don't know enough about lunar rise and set times to draw any sort of conclusion from that, but I do know Lamb said the moon must be in the sky for the time-travel ritual to work.

That being the case, there is little reason to stay here, no matter when "here" is. I must find shelter and water, food if I can, and make contact with people.

I don't know which one of those scares me more at this point.

And to think - less than a week ago I was on Skycity 15, in my much-despised little tent, bitterly resenting that I was too sick to sell my Doctor-issued food ticket!

Oh, to be back there now!

Funny, how context makes hypocrites of us all. . .

I find a thin trail through the woods, a faint line of brown through a seemingly endless expanse of mottled green, that seems to lead in the general direction of the manse, if by a somewhat roundabout way. At the moment, it feels unwise to go traipsing though the fields alone - far better to have some cover.

A half an hour or so later, I fill my steel bottle with water from a small cascading stream I stumble across. The water tastes earthy and sharp - quite unpleasant, in fact - but for all that, it seems clean enough. Still, I won't drink it unless I fail to find friendly Humans before dark.

I nibble on some pods of sweet Cicely that I find growing under the bank, and as I pick them I discover a tiny hawthorn tree tucked in between two of the overhanging boulders. The spindly branches are dotted with ripe berries. In minutes, I have a nice double-handful of them. I find a relatively clean spot to sit, and settle down to eat. It isn't going to be nearly enough to fill my stomach, but it's still something. The Cicely reminds me of some of the spicy herb-flavoured candies we used to make at the farming station in Lower South-5, and the hawthorn berries taste like a wilder, brighter version of a Skycity miniaturized-hybrid apple. They might even have been a base-note reference when the hybrid was being designed, I'm not sure. They're delicious, anyway, and disappear in five minutes flat.

A frugal breakfast, but flavorful, at least.

A few hundred meters on, I find some Blewitt mushrooms, and not far from there, a somewhat scattered wealth of ripe chestnuts and sprigs of alisanders. I've never been so thankful I studied Historical Botany. I take my steel bottle out of the wool bag and fill the pouch with these finds. The mushrooms are exactly like one of the non-hybridized varieties we grow on Skycity 15, so I trust them, and though I've never seen chestnuts or alisanders before - well, not face-to-face, as it were - they are both so distinctive they're unmistakable. I can eat all three finds raw if I have to, or I can donate them this evening to the cheerful, helpful housewife who will take me in for the night.

I smirk a little. Wishful thinking.

But it's better than imagining the worst.

My thin little path has disappeared and reappeared several times already, so I am not worried when it peters out again. Far off to my left through the tree trunks I can still see the bright edge of the green fields that make the more direct path between the manse and Craigh na Dun. I've never quite let them out of my sight. I shuffle along for a good hour or more, and the morning is well along, the air turning quite bright and warm, when I finally work back around to the manse.

Or where the manse should be! I bite my lip, for fear that when I get there, all I'll find is an empty plot of land.

But no, Mrs. Graham said the house was over 300 years old, didn't she? Jet engine technology isn't _too_ much older than that, I don't think, so the house must be there by now.

Unless, of course, I am in the future. . . or I misread what those long, thin clouds meant. . . or. . .

I shake my head. Speculating isn't going to get me anywhere.

I break out from the trees, ten or fifteen meters from the distinctive stone wall of a vegetable garden. The house is there, every blessedly recognizable wall and beam of it.

But everything else is different.

The house is neither new nor old in appearance, a point in favour of my being in the past, but it is also so clearly abandoned, empty and lonely, that it might as well be ten-thousand years into the future. It looks so forlorn, it strikes me to the heart. Such a secure, thriving, _living_ place I left last night! It is such a blow to see it as it is now, I stand gaping for far longer than is necessary.

Doubtless it is this that makes me trip.

It was a stray stone, one I would have easily noticed had I not been transfixed upon the plight of the house that had been my refuge for the previous three days. A stone, and an incautious step, and a turned ankle is my reward. I collapse to the ground, rendered mute by the initial shock and pain. Eventually, I sit up, wincing as I take off my shoe, and survey the damage. It is already beginning to swell, and a bruise is blooming. I pour some of the cold water from my bottle on it, thinking that might help with the swelling. I explore the anklebones as well as I can with my fingers, and determine that it is a sprain. Not too severe, but sharp enough that I probably cannot walk without limping. That means slow, even more labourious travel.

I have almost decided to stay here at the manse - maybe camp in the greenhouse if the doors to the main house are locked, something, I don't know - when I remember Lamb mentioning a hospital down the road, not too far away.

I don't know what year it is, but I know I am in Scotland, and any place so mad about tradition that they have houses over 300 years old, must surely put hospitals where it is traditional to have hospitals? The road is right there, and it probably would be easier to travel on than a faint path in the woods. . .

I hop and hobble over to the overgrown and weedy garden beds, and pick up a long, sturdy stick to serve me as a crutch. It's a gamble, but aren't I already playing at the highest stakes? When you've traveled though time itself, why quibble with strolling about on a twisted ankle?

Still, I rest for a while on the low garden wall, wishing with all my heart I'd had just a few days more to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Graham, and get to know the house and garden a little better. I might have been able to tell if what I am currently looking at came before or after the Grahams' tenure.

Oh well. If I am going, I had better go.

Making it to the road is slow, and excruciating. Walking on the road itself is mildly less slow, but no less painful, until I get a little better with my makeshift crutch. I've slung my bag of chestnuts and mushrooms across my body, and I'm clutching my steel bottle with my free hand. It's awkward, but just on this side of doable.

The sun is climbing towards noon, and by my reckoning I've gone perhaps one kilometer, when I must stop and rest, or I'm afraid I will faint. With every step this seems more and more like a gamble I should not have taken. But, it's a road. There must be people along it somewhere.

All at once, it hits me that I will need a story. I'm injured, I have virtually nothing beyond the slightly odd clothes I'm wearing, no IdenTcard, no functional Communication Number. . . oh, and I don't actually know what year it is.

When I find people, they will have questions. And I can hardly tell them I'm an unfortunate traveler from the year 2279, where I participated in an ancient Pagan time-travel ritual and transported myself through the stones of Craigh na Dun, now, can I?

Although I do admit - that _would_ be a quicker way to get to the hospital. . .

I sit as comfortably as I can, peeling and eating a few chestnuts while I think.

I decide to say I was camping, and was set upon by thieves in the night. I escaped with nothing but my sleeping clothes and one small bag. It's not so far from the truth that I can't back it up, and it can explain my lack of luggage, my strange attire, my twisted ankle, and my presence in general. Perhaps it even will set me up for some pity - or at least some basic understanding. Best of all, it's time non-specific. If this is 1970, I'm pretty sure I can pull off the story. If this is 2470, I'm _still_ pretty sure I can pull it off. I know all too well that as long as there is even a semblance of wilderness, there will be campers. And as long as there is Humanity, there will be thieves and ruffians.

And if I still don't know the year. . . well, if I play my cards right, I'll be able to figure that out just by listening to people. When I find them, of course. . .

Which I'm never going to do just sitting here.

By now my ankle is numb, but the swollen joint has stiffened with inactivity, so it is frustratingly difficult to get moving again, but I persist, and eventually find some sort of a rhythm. _Tap, thud, tap, thud. . ._ The road has widened a bit and is going, I think, slightly uphill. An untrimmed and overgrown hedge to one side tells me that while civilization is fairly nearby, not too many people use this particular road. Heaps of fallen, mouldering leaves everywhere only confirm it.

The forest is just beyond the verge to my other side. I seriously consider going back into its bleak but enclosing shade. There is a creeping, dangerous feeling about walking like this, all in the open. . .

I round a wide, gentle bend, and find myself near a crossroads. Nothing too remarkable about that - I've passed by three today already - but this is the first time I've seen evidence of living people, on the road or anywhere, all day. A few dozen meters down the road, there is a groundcar, sitting half in the verge, clearly abandoned or broken, and around it are four or five figures, some milling around it, some standing like statues.

I take a deep breath and turn down the road towards them.

_Tap, thud. . ._

_Tap, thud. . ._

I get a firm grasp on my story, and a firmer grasp on my walking stick.

_Tap, thud. . ._

_Tap, thud. . ._

My spirits rise a little as I get closer. They are all uniformed in black or dark blue, and the cut of the jackets is so like our Patrolmen that I can't help smiling.

_Tap, thud. . ._

_Tap, thud. . ._

There is no way they haven't seen me coming, and yet as I draw close to them, none of them turn to look at me right away.

My stomach drops, my heart races. . . I don't know what to think, and I'm uncertain what to do.

Then they all turn to look at me at once. Almost like they rehearsed it.

This would be unsettling enough, except. . .

Except. . .

The nearest one of those blank and cheerless faces, is a face that I know. . . and yet he is nothing but a stranger to me.

It is the one face that I _know_ cannot be here, that I _cannot_ believe is here.

And yet, there he is, staring back at me, narrow-eyed and ruthless, nothing like the man he was before.

"Fr. . . Frank?"

He sneers at me, and looks me coldly up and down.

"No."

I don't see the slap coming. It catches me on my left ear, knocking me off balance and forcing all my weight onto my twisted ankle.

And again, I fall.


	16. Fighting Dirty

My head is ringing, from the blow or from sheer rage, I'm not sure which, but either way, my vision turns red.

I drop my stick as I flail to break my fall, and my right hand skids into the leaf mould, running hard up against something round and solid.

Without thinking, I take it up, my left hand already gripping my steel bottle like a club. I wrench my body to a sitting position, and catch one of the men trying to pin me to the ground.

Crr-ack!

My stone connects hard with his descending knee, and he jumps back, yelping in pain. I swing the other way with my bottle, and get a good strike on the cheekbone of another. I throw myself back and ram my good foot into the groin of a third. I push myself further back onto the verge and get another strike in - my bottle jams into a solar plexus - but four against one is long odds, and I'm out of luck.

I get kicked hard twice on my flank and side, I scrape my stone along teeth and jaws, hands are ripping at my hair, trying to hold me down, I break two fingers that I am sure of, a face gets too close and I break a nose, blood drips on my hands and I don't know if it is mine, my knee connects with another groin, I bury an elbow in ribs, and bite an earlobe straight through, and then -

"AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!"

An embattled wild animal sound roars though the trees, and a blazing red stun-quarrel arcs in from somewhere and explodes all over my opponents' bodies. Some of the gel splatters on my leg, numbing it, but making the muscles spasm uncontrollably.

My opponents instantly back off, arms and necks and legs and faces jerking out of their control.

As my lines of sight clear, my vision slows, and with terrible clarity I see the man who looks like Frank, standing off coolly from our melee, calmly draw his blast pistol and take careful aim. . . at _me_. . .

Before he can pull the trigger, a second stun quarrel catches him full in the chest, blasting him backwards and coating him in the immobilizing gel. He falls to the ground, grotesquely writhing and twitching.

"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!"

The roaring continues, and two ferocious shapes bolt out from the trees, wielding sticks and Stunbows and fists, cracking heads and punching kidneys. Blood sprays from mouths and noses, and I am inundated with the noise and violence and the punching and hitting and blood and numbness and the twitching and-

"Come wi' me lass!"

One wild ferocious shape resolves itself into a man, tall and bearded, holding out a hand that isn't trying to hurt me.

"Can't-" I gasp, "My foot-"

"Agch!" he grunts harshly, then jerks me upright and slings me over his shoulder I still don't know how, and shouts to his companion, "Leave them Angus! Let's go!"

With a final battle cry followed by several thuds, we retreat into the woods so fast I barely have time to look back. In the fleeting glimpse I get, all I see is a man splayed unconscious in the road, a man who mere seconds ago had been prepared to kill me without a qualm, a man who looks exactly like Frank. . .

My rescuers aren't at all interested in what lies behind, however, being all too intently focused on wherever they're going. They don't speak, not to me or each other.

We're a few hundred meters into the trees when the man carrying me halts, and shifts me around so he can carry me hammock-style. Then, with a brief grin and a nod, we're off again. We go up a long incline, and through several gullies, and around so many turns, I'm quite lost. My head whirls as soon as I realize I don't know where I am. I'd gotten a little used to not knowing _when_ I am, but both at once is almost too much for me to bear at the moment. I must spend ten or fifteen minutes staring at my lap before I even wake up to the fact that one of my hands is still gripping a dirty, bloodied stone, and the other has a death-clamp on my steel bottle.

Slowly, I unclench my fingers. As I do so, a deep, uncontrollable shaking starts in my stomach, and spreads to every part of me, as if it very well means to shake me apart. It is virulent and harsh, like a nuclear blast wave, clogging my nerves, filling my head with a roaring, primal pain I cannot express. I want to cry, but I can't, the shaking won't let me. I lean my head on this man's strange, blessed shoulder and make a small, lost sound so pathetic I wonder he doesn't drop me at once out of sheer disgust.

Instead, to my shock, he laughs.

"Aye, lass, I didnae kno' a sane woman yet didnae have that reaction tae Black Jack."

His companion chuckles harshly, "Sane _goats_ have that reaction tae Black Jack."

"Aye, ee's a right bugger, no question. But ye can ease yersel' lassie, we'll be tae shelter soon."

I have no idea who he is, his speech is rough, and he is frighteningly strong, but somehow, he comforts me.

Slowly, over several long minutes, the shaking subsides, leaving in its wake a fatigue so profound I scarcely have time to notice it before I am fathoms deep in slumber.


	17. Past Participle

"Well can ye fix it, or can ye not?"

"Et's no' a flippin' radio, Dougal! I cannae jus' take the thing apart blindfolded and put it back together again wi'out a map! I'm no Davie Beaton."

"Aye, Rupe, god knows ye never spoke truer. But that doesnae answer the question. Can ye fix it?"

"I cannae tell with ye hangin' over me like a cluckin' wee hen, now can I?"

"Oh, give over Dougal, and let the lad work."

I've only halfway heard this, and who knows how much more of the discussion, through a filtering haze of my uncertain sleep, but that last voice is mildly familiar, and it brings me fully awake.

"Ye'er a fine one to talk, Murtagh Fraser! I send ye tae do a simple job, and ye come back with nowt but a wee damaged Sassenach!"

"Ye sent _us_ tae get the plates _ye_ forgot, from a car _ye_ abandoned too close tae the campaign line for _yer_ own sweet comfort!"

Yes, a familiar voice. Clipped, blunt and harsh, but assured, and worth listening to.

"Plausible deniability, Murtagh. It's important."

The other voice is smoother, more devious. Dangerous, even.

"Weel it makes no matter now - Agents found it afore we got there - and not content wi' that, they started amusing themselves with that "wee Sassenach" yonder."

I've come to in a small, dim room, and am laying somewhat uncomfortably on a very lumpy couch. The door is half-open, with light streaming in from the much larger room beyond. The grumpy and slightly echo-y voices are coming from that direction too.

"Aye, I saw her when ye brought her in - she looks like she might be an amusement worth having."

"Shut yer trap, Rupert! Ye didnae see what Angus an' I saw."

I begin to like this gruff voice - not just for saving me, but for thinking about what saving me would mean to his group of companions.

"Oh, aye? An' what was that?"

"Agch, only the blow that had her flat out in the verge - t'was a dirty blow, ye understand - and five seconds later three of five Agents were bruised and bleeding too - and the fourth soon followed. With nowt but a rock, a wee thermos, an' her own hands and feet, she broke _bones_ afore either of us could draw our Stunbows, right enough, Angus?"

"Aye."

The memory comes back to me, red-stained and terrible.

"Oh, she was blessed fierce, that one. She might even have had the better of 'em if we hadn't put our two cents in."

"Now that's where I'll say ye'er wrong, Murtagh. Ye were bellowing down the hill when I took my shot, an' ye didnae see the bead Black Jack was drawing on her-"

"Black Jack? Ye didnae say _Black Jack_ was among the Agents!"

There is fear in the devious voice, and not a small amount of disgust.

"Have I been given the chance? Aye, it were him, the bastard. He was the one who felled her to begin with. And her only limping along, innocent as the day."

I shiver at the abhorrent memory.

"Black Jack! We need to be off home - afore he comes looking for us! Aye, and ye know he's capable of it!"

"I'm workin' as fast as I can, Dougal. None of yer frettin' can make it go faster."

The "Rupert" voice is complacent and preoccupied, only mildly interested even when the devious voice demands his attention.

"And did I ask ye? Jus' do yer work and shuddup!" I hear one or two of them restlessly stomping around, "And ye! Was it necessary tae break the car _right_ on the border?"

A new voice quips, "I take care of yer wee horses, Dougal - not yer wee arses! Is'no _my_ fault the bloody contraption choked while ye were campaigning past yer border!"

"That _bloody contraption_ is _brand noo_! As well as being the best of its kind. What am I supposed tae think ye did wi' it?"

"I didnae do anything with it save drive it - and it pulled the horse trailer fine on the way down. There was nothing tae say it wouldnae be fine on the way back."

This new voice is calmer, softer, more amused than riled up by the devious voice's sound and fury. His responses are not so much complacent as detached - almost superior.

"An' if ye hadnae brought us sae close tae the border in the first place, we wouldnae have had to cut and run. We were lucky we saved the horse trailer and the van. If we cannae get the Rover fixed, we can leave it here and still get home. I have an adapter for the hitch on the van, and there's room for all of us."

"We'er saving the Rover. We arnae losing _two_ cars on this run."

"Oh, an' losing _my_ car is acceptable losses, is it?" complains the "Angus" voice.

"Aye, that wee clunker?" the devious voice says, "We were only draggin' its dead weight around anyway. I wish the Agents well of it! If we'er lucky, it'll blow up in their faces and rid us of Black Jack for good. But th' Rover issa different kettle o' fish. D'ye think Colum doesnae ken the cost of it? He'll have _all_ our arses if we leave it behind. D'ye think he'll ever be parting with that much brass for a car again? Let alone twice in one year? Agch!"

Slowly, I push myself to a sitting position. It's only then that I notice my ankle is wrapped in a soft cloth bandage. It's secure, but not too tight, and if the smell is anything to go by, the dressing has been treated with a bruise/sprain ointment too. I feel an extra spurt of thankfulness towards that gruff voice, sure he must have been the one who did this.

"Not tae mention it's prime for parading ye around t' wee villages," says the superior voice.

"Aye, and if tha's what'll bring constituents, tha's what we'll do, ye ken?"

"Oh, I ken."

The contentious conversation falls into an uneasy silence. Tentatively, I try my weight on my bad foot. It still hurts, but I can walk, though not quickly. With infinite care, I take two steps to the door, and peer out into the brightly-lit main room.

Instantly, it is apparent this is a garage of some sort. Car parts and greasy tools line row after row of workbenches and shelves and crates. Rags, cans, gloves, blowtorches, mugs, scraps of sheet metal, wiring, mops, and who knows what else mingle freely with fuel barrels, and buckets of paint, solvent, and skin-degreaser.

Five restless male shapes are ranged around the one car in the room, its bonnet raised, its sadly ineffectual innards exposed. This must be the "Rover" they've all been talking about. I know that's a brand name for a vehicle manufacturer, but. . . I squint past the caustically-bright worklight they're shining on the engine, trying to identify it if I can.

My heart skips a beat and I inhale sharply.

That's not just a Rover engine, that's a Land Rover Artex-680 Trawler engine.

A _brand new_ LRA-680 Trawler engine - with its distinctive semi-fusion coils and full plasma drive. . .

I know when I am. This car clinches it.

I've only seen a Trawler engine face-to-face once, in a museum on New Osaka, but I worked for years on a farming station in Lower South-5. On all of Skycity 15's farming stations, but in the Lower Townships especially, it is a point of pride, almost a rite of passage, to know the history of the plasma drive engines that are still used with our crop regulators and harvesting combines.

I'm in 2078 or 2079. No question. The Trawler is the only semi-fusion domestic vehicle ever built, and it was ahead of its time. It sold lamentably poorly, and so was only in production for those two years. But a little over a decade later, when crystolic-fusion was discovered, it was the only existing engine type that could run directly on crystal plasma. It was therefore the direct forefather of our modern-day skycars and cargo ships too, not just our farming equipment.

2078\. Two hundred years into the past. _I know_. . .

I know when I am.

I almost start weeping with relief.

One of the man-shapes gets in the Rover's cabin, and pushes some buttons, cycling for an engine cold-start.

A pale aqua-blue light within the upper plasma cylinders flickers, sputters, and vanishes again.

I smile. It's the flow-regulator. I know by the very sound. This early design was notorious for having a faulty flow-regulator, and I've repaired enough of them in my time to know that even the modern designs haven't fully addressed all the problems. Fortunately, it's a relatively simple fix.

He cycles for a cold-start again, and again, and yet again, and each time the bluish light within the cylinders sparks and sputters unevenly. Semi-fusion coils were never meant to take that kind of treatment - he must have wedged open the manual override. If he cycles them much more, he'll overload the retort module. . .

"You'll break it if you keep going on like that," I say, stepping from my little sanctuary with a confidence I do not feel.

Five pairs of grumpy male eyes are on me in an instant.

"If you don't clear the retort-module in between cold-starts, you'll get an energy backup in the collection chamber," I take one limping step forward, then another, "And the plasma has started sparking in the upper cylinders, so your conversion-ratio is already erratic - and probably hyperactive."

They all continue silently staring at me as I haltingly pace towards the Trawler, "That means if you're not careful, the whole engine could explode."

The man furthest to my right runs a hand through his short, bristling grey beard, and gives me a glittering, incisive stare that might have been intimidating if Black Jack hadn't just attacked me far more viciously.

"Can ye fix it, lassie?" he asks, softly.

His is the smooth, devious voice. Dougal, I think his name is.

"Well, it depends on what's broken. But I think so."

He gestures eloquently, and the other three men step back a pace, the fourth sliding reluctantly from the cabin. I _think_ that one is Rupert. . .

Now that I can get a closer look, I see that the flow regulator isn't just malfunctioning, half of its own manual override mechanism has been shaken or torn loose, leaving the rest of it half-engaged. Coupled with whatever Rupert has done to the cold-start system, it's no wonder the thing won't start.

I peer past the upper cylinders, to the labyrinthine interior, trying to find the piece from the regulator, and also see if there are any other common irregularities I'll need to worry about. Turbine shift, inadequate fuel reabsorption, coolant leaks, things like that. . .

Everything else looks superficially fine, but away down to the left, stuck between two of the lower cylinders, I spot an errant piece of metal. I'm not certain from this angle, but I think it's the missing piece I'm looking for.

"Does anybody have a G-Traction unit?"

I look up, only to be met with blank stares.

Right, this is 2078. They don't have gravity nullification fields yet. . .

"Uh. . . a handheld T-PEC?"

They continue to stare.

This is ridiculous, transformable projected electromagnetic constructs have been around _forever_.

Well, I guess not. . .

I sigh, "A _magnet on a stick_?"

"Ah!" says the one whose voice I had identified as "Angus". He searches around on one of the worktables, then hands me a telescoping magnet pen, "Here ye go, lassie."

I shake my head. At them and myself. I'm going to have to get used to this time period _fast_.

I fumble a bit at first with the magnet, not used to the clumsy imprecision of it, but I eventually get the piece of metal out. Or rather, the several connected pieces. It looks like one of the lever plates and its attendant sensor board switch has snapped clear through - though heaven only knows how that could happen on a brand-new machine like this. . .

I remind myself that _how_ doesn't matter at the moment. Right now the goals are to clear the retort module, and then find some way to upgrade a plasma flow regulator using only 21st century tools and supplies. . .

I find the retort module's access panel, and thankfully, several of the essential codes are pre-printed on it. I punch in the code for a full clear. That will take a minute or five, so I return to the flow regulator. I'll have to remove the manual override mechanism to do the upgrade anyway, so -

"I'll need a multi-tool," I say, hoping fervently that's what the device is called in this century, "One that will fit these connectors," I point at the tiny bolts and nuts on the side of the flow regulator.

A grunt and a few seconds later, and a rough-skinned hand holding an impressively varied foldable pocket-tool is presented to me. I'm about to just grab it and continue working, when I look up for a moment first, and find myself eye-to-eye with the dark-haired, gruff-voiced man who rescued me.

My heart reproaches me. I haven't even thanked him. . .

I take the multi-tool, then put out my own hand. As a hello? As thanks? As a peace offering? I'm not sure. . .

"I'm Claire, by the way. . ."

He takes my hand briefly, and nods, bluntly, like it's the only way he knows how to communicate. I don't take offense. It probably is.

"Murtagh," he says, and steps back to let me work, "Th'rest of the introductions can wait."

I nod, and turn back to the Trawler. It takes me a few tries to find the proper sized spanner to remove the tiny bolts, but this is a good thing. It gives me some more time to think. Usually a regulator upgrade would call for nano-sensors and woven carbon filament, but if they don't have T-PEC's here, then there's no way their nanotechnology has progressed to that. With the tools I have available, I doubt I could even get a proper diagnostic on the broken regulator. And of course, the first rule of technical engineering is you can't fix what you don't know is broken. The best I can probably do is lock the valves in stasis mode, then repair the manual override, cross-link it to the motherboard, and hope. It will take finagling, but. . .

I lift the manual override free, and a great spray of reactor-coolant douses my sleeve and chest.

"What did you _DO_?" I shout at the room in general, "Who redirects _coolant_ through the plasma flow regulator?!"

I throw the multi-tool in rampant disgust, and the room explodes with shouting, finger-pointing, arguing, waving, stomping and blaming - all five men furious, not at me, but with each other.

This is the day that will not end, but finally, I've had enough.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt _Christ_ , either help me, or _shut up_ , you _bloody_ Scots!"

I'm screaming to make myself heard, but by the time I tell them to shut up, they're already astonishingly quiet.

"Well well," murmurs Dougal, with a wry half-smile, "I havenae heard a woman swear like that in nigh on thirty years."

This is 2078. I had forgotten for a minute. The Second Victorian Era is in full swing, complete with its own distinctive fashion, music, and social mores - many of which share disturbing similarities with those from the First Victorian Era. To these men, I've just done about the equivalent of openly groping a neighbor in the communal steamshower.

I open my mouth to apologize, but suddenly, the entire room is laughing. The tension dissolves, and I receive more than one hearty slap on the shoulder. Dougal himself hands me a roll of shop-towels.

"Thank you," I say faintly, unable to quite repress my own smile. These men. Whoever they are, they don't do anything by halves. For the most part, I can respect that.

I sop up as much of the greasy coolant as possible, and wipe my skin as clean as I can. The stuff is neon green, and smells disgusting, but it shouldn't be dangerous unless ingested. My dress is probably a write-off though. As if it wasn't already. . .

Right. I frantically try to get back on track. So the flow regulator has been flooded with coolant, that adds three or four steps to this process. I'll need to flush the chamber, test for valve integrity, make sure there hasn't been any backwash into the collection chamber, and if there has, possibly do a collection chamber purge.

Right. Easy. It's just two or three hours hard labour on a machine I've only seen once in a museum, using tools I barely know the names for. No problem.

Grimly, I go about reversing the coolant redirect. Once I get past this problem, there is still the over-arching problem of the flow-regulator upgrade. If cross-linking the manual-override is going to have any chance of success, I'm going to have to repair it first.

"Um. . ." I point vaguely, not caring at the moment if I'm being rude again or not, "Could one of you see if you can find me an exothermic fusion wand, gah. . . no. . . uh. . . a . . . soldering. . . iron?. . . yes, a soldering iron."

The tallest guy - the one whose name I haven't heard - goes to search. His must be the "superior" voice I heard earlier, but so far he hasn't said anything to me. He's wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and a knitted cap, just like the rest them, but as he turns to go, I see flashes of bright red curls from underneath the dark blue wool. It's odd. Not his hair, but that I should be noticing such things at a time like this. . .

"Heer's yer wee device, lassie - I mean Claire," he says, plunking it down on the nearest workbench. It looks like a cruder version of exactly the tool I've used to repair things a thousand times, "Plug it in for ye, shall I?"

I nod, and say nothing, because I'm not entirely sure what that means. But he only stoops and connects the fusion wand to a power source.

"There ye are."

"Thanks," I limp over to the workbench, and sort out the pieces I'll need to fix. He watches every move I make.

And that's another odd thing. I've been under intense scrutiny ever since I stepped out of that little side-room, but I haven't been hyper-aware of being watched at all until I knew _his_ eyes were on me.

But they have been on me this whole time, haven't they? So what has changed?

Nothing, I tell myself. Nothing has changed. Not the temperature of the room, nor the pace of my heart, nor the air in my lungs.

I take a deep breath, and force my mind back onto repairing the engine.

It takes closer to four hours than three, but eventually, the Trawler purrs to life with one touch of the start button. It's a hack-and-slash job, probably only good for one trip, but I've never been prouder.

"You'll have to take it to your local specialist mechanic as soon as you get home," I say, closing the bonnet at last, "But that should get you there."

Dougal nods, gesturing with what I assume is the closest he can get to thanks, and glances over at the other four, who are all sitting close round the end of a workbench, silent over the business of eating their tea.

"Ye hungry, Claire?"

"Starving!" I say, stretching this way and that, my back sore from stooping.

"Weel, I will say ye've more than earned it, I jus' hope ye dinnae mind hagg-"

I stretch a bit too far, and a sharp new pain makes me gasp. I clutch my side, "Sorry! I was kicked in the ribs earlier today, and what with everything else, I forgot. . . "

"Aye, Black Jack is a right wee bastard," his lip twists underneath his grey beard, "Murtagh?"

"Aye?"

"Give Claire the first aid kit after ye find her some clean clothes."

"Aye." He gets up without another word, and disappears into the depths of the garage.

I limp over to the seat he just vacated, and heave myself onto it. I'm fairly certain I ache in places I never knew the Human body possessed. I'm so worn out I barely notice I'm sitting next to the tall red-headed unknown.

"As I was sayin'," says Dougal, sliding me a generously loaded plate, "I hope ye dinnae mind haggis." He hands me a fork.

I look down at a pile of dark greyish brown stuff beside the heap of mashed potatoes.

I look up, tiredly, "Is it made from small children?"

Dougal's brow furrows, "Noo-"

"Then I don't give a shit." I take a huge bite before anyone can say anything else, and chew and swallow with such regularity from then on, it only takes a few minutes for everyone to stop staring at me. I wonder why they're all so shocked at me _eating_. After all, they're all eating the same thing. I mean, it does taste stronger then I'm used to, and the texture is strange to me, but it's food, and I'm hungry. I'm Skycity born and bred. We don't complain about free food unless literal cannibalism is involved.

I'm halfway through before I realize I swore again, and that's probably why they all stared. I groan inwardly. Two hundred years into the past. . . I _would_ end up so far back in time that. . . that. . .

So far. . . _back_ in time. . .

It really shouldn't be a shock that it's taken this long to hit me - given how busy with other things I've been the past few hours - but only now do I fully realize it. I'm _in the past_.

A thing Lamb said _none_ of his time-travelers had done before. None of the ones who had returned, that is. . .

2078 is before the Unity War. Before the Second Battle of Culloden. Right smack in the middle of the British Cold War.

A pivot-point in history, and I'm _here_. I might change things. I might have changed things already.

The enormity of it staggers me. I resolve to go as softly as I can for a while, get my bearings, and learn a _lot_ more about things before I try and change anything deliberately. If I ever do.

"Are ye well?" asks Tall Unknown, apparently noticing that I'm sitting woodenly still, a half-eaten bite of haggis still in my cheek.

"Oh. Yes," I say, trying not to stare too much at his beautifully sincere blue eyes, "It's. . . been a long day. . ."

He smiles like I've just told him he's won a lifetime supply of water tokens, "Ye do have a gift for understatement, Sassenach." He stands then, and makes to go, "I'm off tae clear a spot fer ye in the van, sae ye can ride wi' yer foot up." He smiles brilliantly again, and whistles as he goes.

"Ride?" I turn to Dougal, "Are you taking me with you?"

"Aye," he pauses, then smiles a flat little devious smile, "It's maybe time to introduce ourselves." He holds out a hand to me, "I'm Dougal Mackenzie, official Clan MacKenzie candidate for the first Independent Scottish Council." I shake his hand briefly, and he gestures at his remaining companions, "Angus Mhor, Rupert Mackenzie - " he nods at the space behind me, "Murtagh ye already know."

I turn, and Murtagh himself puts a pile of mismatched clothing on the workbench next to me. Well-worn and baggy jean overalls, a plaid flannel button-down, and a man's cotton undershirt. All smell strongly of paint-stripper, but they're clean, at least. Next to them he puts a largish box with a red cross on it, a roll of shop-towels, several sizes of plastic bags, and a half-liter container of skin degreaser.

"Ye ought tae be gettin' ready soon, lass. We'll be leaving in a few minutes."

"Yes. . . but. . ." I turn back to Dougal

"Weel, dinnae ye think ye've at least earned an audience with my brother?"

"Your. . . brother?"

"Aye. Chieftain and Laird of Clan MacKenzie."

There's something significant about how he says that. With the slightest emphasis on _Laird_ , like I'm supposed to know a great deal more about this whole situation than I do.

Which, to be fair, an ordinary woman from this time period probably would.

"Well, that's a great deal more than I ever expected, and more than I was going to ask. I mean, just saving me from getting beaten to a pulp was enough. . ."

"Nae," he says, that odd little smile on his face again, "When we undertake to do a thing, we follow it through."

"But you don't know anything about me! Where I'm from, what I'm doing here, what's happened to me. . ."

"Are ye likely to be killing small children?" he asks, a sly twinkle in his eyes.

I can't keep from smiling in response, "No."

He nods sharply, "Then, wait until ye meet my brother. Then ye'll only have to tell the story once."

"Well, thank you. I couldn't have asked for better."

I pick up the pile of things Murtagh left for me, and retreat back in to the little side-room to change.

I've finished putting on bruise ointment, and am almost done scrubbing the coolant residue off my skin when I realize there was an edge to how Dougal had said that last phrase. "Only tell the story once". . . like he was already expecting me to lie.

Which, of course, I _will_ have to do.

But I wonder what lies he's expecting. He can't possibly know about Craigh na Dun, so. . .

2078 is in the middle of the British Cold War. He's a politician, and I'm a Sassenach. He _might_ think I'm a spy. He might! A strange woman limping around Upper Inverness, dressed in nothing but a white gown and long green cloak, who gets herself attacked by Peace Agents? He'd be foolish not to at least be suspicious of anyone like that. But who he suspects I'm working for, and what he thinks I know, I have no idea - and since I'm not a spy, I'm unlikely to ever find out.

And he's just practically _ordered_ me to go back to his brother's house with him.

Oh well. There's nothing for it now, and it's not like I have anywhere else to be, anyway.

The workman's clothes don't fit me very well, but they're leagues better than my coolant-soaked linen dress. I've wadded it up into one of the bags, grateful to be rid of the rotting-potato smell. My bra is in there too, and of course, they didn't give me a replacement. I look down at the plain white undershirt I've just put on. I loop the hem though the neckline, and pull it tight. A makeshift solution, but far better than nothing. I shrug on the button-down and throw my cloak over my shoulders, thankful it was spared the coolant, because the air has gone quite cold. Then I hustle my few things into the remaining plastic bag, and go back out into the garage.

The Tall Unknown escorts me to the van, and settles me and my things on the middle bench-seat of a large Caravan-class groundcar. From the inside, it looks remarkably like a modern Caravan-class skycar owned by a Central Township family. Soft seats, lights, hot and cool air vents, and info-screens embedded in front of passenger seats. The Tall Unknown tucks my cloak around me like it's a blanket, makes sure I'm comfortable sitting sideways, and asks me how I am. Haltingly, I tell him I'm fine, but the truth is, at the moment I'm unable to articulate exactly how I _am_ feeling. His presence, his touch - they spark something in me, just as surely as atoms in a fusion reactor core. He wakes up all the reckless impulses inside my mind, making me yearn for impossible adventures on tropical islands or distant mountains. He makes me want to flee headlong past the untamed edge of some wild place, just so long as it's beautiful, and waiting to be explored.

He sits on the bench behind mine, wedged in between three hard-shelled suitcases, and a large crate of what looks like flyers and handout leaflets. The bleak mundanity of this is at undeniable odds with my visions of rosy romance, but before the image can settle in my mind, he takes up one of the leaflets, hands it to me with a twinkle in his eyes he does nothing to conceal, and says, very seriously, "Greetings ma'am - have you considered voting for Dougal Mackenzie?"

I'm still laughing, and his eyes are still twinkling their bright blue sunshine at me, when Dougal himself gets in the car's front passenger seat. Murtagh follows in the pilot's seat a moment later. They give us some dubious looks, but say nothing. A touch to the van's starter switch - it has a fully electric engine by the sound of it - a wide swing out of the yard, the Rover following us, and we're away.

Off into the unknown, and an adventure that will be as enchanting as any I could dream up, surely. . .

Wishful thinking again, and my bruised ribs remind me painfully of cruel realities, but the view out the windows is far too lovely for me to dwell long on them.

The late afternoon sun casts a golden mist up from between the encroaching trees, a testament to the richly whispered promises of autumn. The cold tang in the air is quickly dissolved in the warm interior of the car, but it leaves the memory of itself behind, like a perfume's afterimage.

The road curves graciously down the sides of the hills, presenting us with scene after scene of grass and stone, trees and mist, sky and slopes, all glowing in the gilding light of early evening.

I take it all in, and wonder how I was ever satisfied with painted metal towers and steel streets grimed with rust. I wonder at the blue of the sky, darkening to ultramarine now, but clear and clean. I wonder at the Human race, who willingly chose the grimy streets over that clean, open blue, who ran to their own destruction, with no thought as to what might follow. Or, if they were not wholly without thought, then their thinking took shape without the weight of awe behind it, to draw Humanity back from the brink.

I've known for some time that we are a dying race. Our whole planet is dying, if not already dead.

Being immersed in the thrumming life of how it used to be is intoxicating, and not a little thrilling. Even Cold Island 12 as I knew it with Lamb was subdued and grey in comparison. The very land itself had not this piercing vitality.

I was a fool this morning. All I'd had to do to realize I was in the past was _breathe_. If my eyes failed me, I should have trusted my lungs and heart.

But today is almost over, the hectic glory of the sun slowly fading from the sky.

We round another shallow bend, and look down into a thickly wooded valley. The carpet of green is darkening into the enclosing black of night, broken in only a few places by the still visible pale outcrops of stone, a distant glow on the horizon that must be Inverness, and. . .

A twinned pair of grey cubic buildings, harshly illuminated by intense floodlights.

They're absolutely unmistakable. And ominous.

"What is that place?" I point and ask, afraid that I already know the answer all too well.

Dougal looks up from some papers he's been poring over since the drive began, only mildly interested in my question, "That? Oh, that's Cocknammon Junction. Trains go though there, and so do we."

"Through the checkpoint?"

Suddenly I have every ounce of Dougal's attention.

"What checkpoint?"

His gaze is so sharp, I get the feeling that if the angle was better, he might catch me up and shake me like a rag.

"There's. . . no checkpoint at Cocknammon?" I desperately try to think of a plausible lie. There's no way I can say my uncle from 2279 told me about it two days ago. . .

His beard bristles fiercely as he grinds his teeth, "Aye, we heard they might make one there. But there's been no sign of one yet. How do ye know?"

"I. . . heard people talking. In town."

It's weak, but at least mildly believable.

"In Inverness?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I don't know, just, people!"

"Stop the car!"

Our voices have risen to a shout, and Murtagh brakes without surprise.

Dougal undoes his harness, and turns as far as he can to look me straight in the eyes.

"There's a checkpoint at Cocknammon Junction?"

"That's what I've heard."

"Are ye certain?"

"Of course I'm not! It was a random overheard conversation! By strangers!"

He growls, and pulls out a small personal info-screen. He types and taps at it fervently for a while, grumbling and exclaiming.

"Weel, the English are supposed tae notify us whenever they institute a new checkpoint. There's nary a word about one at Cocknammon."

He nods, as if this is the best of all confirmations, and then looks at The Tall Unknown.

"Ye'd better get inta hidin' lad," he points at me, "And take the Sassenach with ye."

"What?" I screech, "Why?"

They ignore me.

"What if there's nae room?"

"Well then ye'd better make room, hadn't ye?"

Dougal bends his head to his info-screen again, and starts cursing fearfully fast in a language I don't know. Then, he puts the screen to his ear, and starts talking to someone, equally fast and equally unintelligibly.

Huh. They have combined info-screens and comm radios here. I never knew such combos had lasted this long - I thought the break back to a singular device for audio communication had happened thirty, forty years before this. . .

The Tall Unknown unbuckles my harness, lifts me by the waist, swings me around, and sets me on my feet near the rear of the van.

"Go 'round behind the horse trailer, Sassenach, I'll be right with ye," he says, urgently.

Angus has hopped out of the Rover, and precedes me to the rear of the large white square of the trailer, that I now see is pierced with three-centimeter holes all over its upper half. He unlocks and lifts up a rolling metal door, then hands me up into the space.

Academically speaking, I know what a horse is. I've seen all sorts of pictures and movies featuring them, and I even once had a few plastic toys that were shaped like horses.

But none of that can prepare me for actually _seeing_ one. For being close beside one. For hearing and _smelling_ one. The size and sheer presence of the animal is so impressive that I no longer wonder why royalty was so often depicted riding horses. It's also clear why Dougal has one. But the smell alone would flatten me if it wasn't imperative that I stay conscious.

The Tall Unknown appears, leaping into the trailer and instantly closing the door behind us. I hear Angus lock it from the outside.

Well then.

I have no idea what will happen next.

What does happen is The Tall Unknown speaks gently and soothingly to the horse, easing the animal over to one side. Then he turns, kneels, and opens the long built-in bench cupboard that lines one wall of the trailer. He removes a shovel, some boxes, rope and few other things I don't know what they are, and shoves them hastily into a wooden crate he brought from the van. He secures the crate with rope and hooks underneath the animal's feeding bucket, and then he is doing something with the bench cupboard - shifting something, turning something, laying something out, I don't know - the light is very dim in here.

Then he steps bodily into the cupboard, and lays down, pressing himself as firmly as possible up against the far wall of the narrow space.

"Well," he says, chuckling, "There's room. Get in."

For a second, I'm speechless.

"Wh. . . what?"

I see his outline sit up a little, and reach towards me.

"Listen Claire, if there's a checkpoint down there, and they find us, they'll take me tae jail - if no' worse - and they'll deport ye for no' havin' an ID card. Now get in."

"But. . ." my mind flails, catching onto what at this moment seems the most important thing, "I don't even know your name!"

He sighs gustily, "James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser."

I know it's hardly the time or place, but I can't help laughing aloud, "What a handle! You must have been named for half your family!"

"Aye, that was about the size of it. Folk call me Jamie."

"Jamie. I like it."

"I'm glad. Now will ye get in?"

The Rover starts up, and the trailer is again in motion.

I have no choice.

He really is very good about it. He pillows my head on one of his arms, and uses the other to help settle me, being very careful of my bruised ribs and sprained ankle. There is just enough room to fit the two of us, pressed together, my head under his chin. With his free arm, he closes the lid on us, and does some intricate motions that I don't understand until I hear the satisfying metal click of a lock.

He gives a tiny laugh I wouldn't have heard if I wasn't pressed so close to him, "Tha's the trick of this hidin' spot, Sassenach. We've sensor dampened this cupboard, and modified the lock sae it can be latched from the inside!"

"Very clever," I whisper, shuddering.

"Ye alright?"

"Just barely."

"Ye arenae claustrophobic?"

"It's a hell of a time to ask that, but no. Never have been."

"Tha's good."

"That's _essential_!"

He laughs, again very quietly, "Aye, true. But then why are ye only barely alright?"

I huff a little, the air already grown thick and stuffy, "Well, besides being held up against a man I've only just met, and being rather severely scared - _and_ if you ignore the rest of my day - it stinks in this horse trailer, and there isn't much air in this cupboard!"

"Fair enough," he whispers, "I wilnae talk anymore if it makes ye feel better."

I don't know that it will, but I still nod against his chest. I desperately need some space, and if mental space is the only kind I can get, then I'll take it.

For a long few minutes, I do nothing but breathe, and try to relax. Neither one of us is helped by my being tenser than a guy-wire. I breathe deeply and slowly, rhythmically, and eventually my body eases, fitting more comfortably into the space allotted for it. I tell myself I'm just laying down - in a horse trailer, yes, but that's just a whim, a silly whim from one of those unpredictable, eccentric Beauchamps. No one is chasing me. No one is looking for me. No one even knows I'm here. My hands unclench. I can accept the situation.

Only then can I let myself think about Jamie.

He's being as polite as he reasonably can be under the circumstances. One of his hands is on my shoulder, and one is on my hip, but there's no wandering. We're pressed close, face to face, and while he's undeniably a man, he isn't trying to impose that fact on me.

No, what imposing he does, I bring on myself.

My face is buried in his shirt-front - it would be quite impossible _not_ to smell him - but all on my own I choose to focus on his scent. Because behind the pungency of horse, and the dusty spice of horse fodder, I can smell freshly brewed tea, hot, buttery toast, and a low, warm spice like nutmeg, or cinnamon, but earthier, softer, more enticing. . .

It's been a _long_ time since I've been this physically close to a man. I shouldn't let it do anything to me, but I can't help it. My mind goes off into some rather inappropriate places before I can stop myself.

I grit my teeth. Now that I'm alright with being here, I need a distraction from being here.

"Jamie?" I whisper.

"Aye?"

"I understand now why _I_ have to hide like this - being a Sassenach, and all - but. . . why would they take _you_ to jail?"

There is a long pause, and his fingers spasmodically grip my shoulder.

"They. . . have a warrant out on me. For murder."

I half tense up again before he continues, "Oh, I didnae do it - I couldnae have - no'. . . no' like they said I did, anyway. Stabbed in the back he was. A coward's attack. Tha's no' my way."

I believe him. He'd meet his opponent face-to-face, no matter what.

The horse trailer slows, and I hear a slightly muffled, "Halt, ID's please!".

I instantly tense up again, almost to the breaking point. He can't help but notice, and he starts gently stroking my shoulder, and whispering against my forehead.

"Shh, Claire, it's alright. I'm here. As long as ye'er wi' me, ye'er safe. I promise ye."

That's rich. A man wanted for murder, promising to keep _me_ safe.

I can hardly keep from scoffing. Ha! Safe indeed! Absurd!

Though, I'm slowly realizing it's not the absurdity of any of this that's wrong. "Safe" is simply not what Jamie makes me feel. I felt safe with Murtagh. I felt safe with Mrs. Graham. I felt safe. . . yes, _and loved_ , by Uncle Lamb.

But none of that is what I feel now.

Now, squished into a coffin-sized cupboard that may well yet become my grave, clasped close to a strange man for no reason other than necessity, what little air there is so stuffy that I can hardly breathe. . . I feel something I haven't felt at all for nearly five years, and haven't felt to the fullest for almost nine.

Alive.

I feel. . . alive.

Jamie makes me feel alive.

It is somehow the most shocking revelation yet in a day full of nothing but shocks.

When we roll through the checkpoint with a delay of less than two minutes, the relief is so great that for the second time today, I fall asleep in a strange man's arms.


	18. Something More

I wake up three times in the night.

The first time, I jerk awake, thinking I'm still clamped in that cupboard, being smothered by the foetid smell of horse droppings. But then I take another breath, and I know it isn't so. The shaking rhythm of a vehicle in motion is the same, the darkness around me is similar, but I'm warmer, freer, the air is clean, and two strong arms are _holding_ me close, not wrapped tight around me because there's no room for anything less. I breathe in once more and know we're back in the van, Jamie has me on his lap, and my head is on his shoulder. The smell that's lingering in my nostrils, is his.

I haven't opened my eyes, but he must know I've awakened. I _know_ he must, because his arms twitched tighter around me for a moment after I started awake. He doesn't say anything though, or acknowledge me beyond that, holding his arms and himself rigidly still. He is waiting for me to relax again, but urgently - like he wants me here, wants me to stay here, like he can't bear to let me go. Like he _cares_. Like he miraculously fell in love with me in that cupboard, and now there is so much between us that words or even caresses would be insufficient to express it all, so why break the spell?

I smile, my lips up against his collarbone. Will I never have done with wishful thinking? He's just being a gentleman, caring for me scrupulously, every step of the way, to the end of the line. But I know that's all this is. Duty. We'll get wherever we're going, our paths will part, and then he'll forget me soon enough.

But that doesn't prevent me from enjoying it while it lasts. From enjoying _him_. I reset my shoulders, and snuggle into him just the tiniest bit. I inhale deeply again, and hum softly against the skin of his neck. He really does smell amazing. I want to raise my head and bury my face in the curve behind his ear, nuzzling to get the full scent of him. If we were alone, and if things were different. . .

Well. Then things might be different.

Suddenly, I notice his arms are shaking with the effort of holding them so still for so long. He can't relax until I do. Such a perfect gentleman. . .

I hum again, almost contentedly, and oblige him by falling back to sleep.

The second time, I float up out of a strange, heavy dream, and I'm laid back on the suitcases piled next to us, my cloak rolled beneath my head for a pillow, with one of his arms slanted under my side, and the other slack across my thighs. I open my eyes halfway, and see his head lolling on his chest. He's asleep. Very.

The rhythm of the car hasn't changed, but the dark has become the deeper, colder dark of midnight and beyond. An occasional streetlamp illuminates things, but so brightly that the images they leave in my mind are blurred, overexposed, colourless jumbles.

The only clear thing is Jamie, his breathing deep and regular, his silhouette so near, the lines of it so pure, that even in the dark I can see his cap has shifted halfway down his forehead, pushing his hair into his eyes. I'm hyper-aware of every place we touch. The base of my spine against his thigh. One of his arms brushing my knees. His other arm digging into my bruised ribs. . .

Carefully, I shift so that I can reach his hand, and lift his arm from under me. For a wild second I don't know what to do with it. Then, I put his hand on my shoulder, lean my head against his wrist, and go back to sleep again.

The third time, I awaken instantly, like turning on a light switch, suddenly, but without shock. The cabin of the van is filled with the blue-grey light that speaks of dawn, and I am still leaned back on the uneven surface of the suitcases, my legs still draped over Jamie's lap, and one of his arms is still resting across my knees. This time he is also awake, his head still bent, but now over a personal info-screen. The cool blue-white light from it gilds his hair a strange green-brown, and brightens the dark blue of his cap.

"Mornin'," he looks over at me and smiles, "Sleep well?"

There is a shade of irony in his tone. Such an ordinary question doesn't sound quite right in these far-from-ordinary circumstances.

"Mmm. Better than I expected. . . or had reason to hope."

"Good." He smiles again, and goes back to scrolling though whatever he's looking at on his info-screen.

For a long minute, I consider him. He's young, certainly less than thirty, and possesses the kind of beauty that women dream about - but for themselves. Skin, eyes, eyelashes, hair, I'd gladly trade mine for his. Even the lines of his mouth are beautiful. But he's so intensely, assuredly male, I have to admit, I'm a little unsure what to make of him. I haven't had time to really think about him until now, and it suddenly strikes me as very odd that such a physical specimen should be traveling in such gruff, blunt company. . . and only be their horse wrangler. I know he can be gentle, courteous, caring - and with his looks, why isn't _he_ the candidate for the Independent Scottish Council? Dougal is far from unappealing, but. . . Jamie. . . He's surely capable of more, much, much more. . .

And then I remember the arrest warrant. Murder. He's wanted for murder. He hid in a cupboard in a horse trailer with me crammed up next to him because he's wanted for murder. . .

In the warmth of the car, the sky just brightening to a rosy dawn, and with my legs draped over his lap, the whole thing seems incredibly absurd.

Jamie puts down his info-screen, and glances at me sidelong, "Like what ye see?"

I lower my eyes, briefly ashamed of staring at him so. "I'm. . . more baffled by it."

"Are ye now?" He turns wide, curious eyes to mine, "An' why would tha' be?"

I gesture at how we're seated, "Well. . . why did you hold me all night? I mean, after the checkpoint was cleared, there was no need. . . was there?"

"Ah, Sassenach," he laughs, softly, and nods towards the front of the cabin, "While I was takin' care of ye, I didnae have to take a turn drivin'."

I snort at him, "You hate driving that much?"

"Weel, let's jus' say I like ye more. And besides. . ." his face sobers, and he looks down at his hands, "Ye fell asleep in that cupboard, scairt, and distressed, tremblin' like a wee colt wi'out its mam." He tentatively pats my knee, "I wanted yer wakin' tae be. . . well. . . no' that."

My heart warms. I can't help imagining what kind of father he'd be.

Well, that and. . . other things he might be good at.

"You certainly succeeded at that," I say, smiling into his eyes. We look at each other for a good deal longer than most people can without growing uncomfortable, all of what was said in that cupboard replaying in my head.

"Jamie?"

"Aye?"

"How did you know that I had no identity card?"

He sighs and leans back, closing his eyes. "When Murtagh brought ye in, ye were flat out. Dead to the world, ye ken?"

He looks quickly over at me. I nod.

"Weel, while I was wrappin' yer foot-"

" _You_ took care of my ankle?"

"Aye. I grew up wi' three brothers - an' we were all venturesome lads - one of us had tae learn how tae bind up hurts, and I was the only one who showed any aptitude for it. . ."

"Right, sorry. Go on."

"Weel then. I was wrappin' yer foot, and Murtagh was tellin' me how brave ye'd been-"

I bark a laugh, interrupting him again.

"What?"

"Oh nothing. Go on." I don't know if I want this generous gallant of mine to know just how murderously _angry_ I was during my encounter with Black Jack's men. . .

"We got curious, ye see. Ye'd given them a black eye, Murtagh said. Naebody does that tae Black Jack. Mostly they surrender or run. Ee's a devil of a bastard, ye ken."

"I'm beginning to. . ."

He half-smiles, ruefully, "And yer wee bag was there, and mebbe we shouldnae have, but we looked through it."

I smirk, "And found nothing but mushrooms, chestnuts and alisanders."

"Aye."

I lean forward, and whisper, centimeters from his ear, "And what if I'd hidden the card in my underclothes?"

He blinks, and flushes almost as dark red as his hair, "Ye. . . ye _didnae_. . . I mean. . . I mean _we_ didnae. . ." He stutters to a halt as I laugh.

"Are you _sure_ you held me all night _just_ because you don't like driving, Jamie?", I run a hand up his arm, and for a second seriously consider running my fingers though the tangle of curls on his neck.

"Aye," says, stoutly, "That was the reason."

"Mm," I hum, noncommittally.

He looks down at where my fingers are now tracing a pattern on his shoulder, then rakes a glance across my face, his eyes coming to rest on my lips.

"That. . ." he says, slowly, "And summat more. . ."

Before I can reply, he notices something over my shoulder, and points, eagerly.

"Look a' that."

I twist around, and see the dark shape of a grandly proportioned house, silhouetted against the pink-streaked sky.

Whatever spell had been weaving between us is quite broken, and only just in time.

"What is it?" I ask, though whatever the place is called, I know this must be our destination.

He lifts my legs gently to the floor, and undoes his harness.

"That's Castle Leoch."


	19. A Man's Home

"Castle" Leoch is anything but. As we approach I can see it is a magnificent house, quite impressive really, especially to someone like me. But a castle it is not. It's a wood-panel construction, like Uncle Lamb's manse. Tiled roofs. Pillared balconies. Row upon row of glass windows that catch the early morning sunlight with an almost overpowering dazzle. Sculpted trees and gardens lining the road the whole long way up to the elaborate iron gate, and beyond. But there isn't a turret or tower in sight, nor stone walls, nor the square saw-edge pattern across the tops of those walls that mark every castle I've ever seen.

Granted, I've only ever seen them in storybooks. . .

Maybe this does count as a castle here?

The main bulk of the building is three levels tall, with two wings making an open courtyard where the van and Rover pull in. Jamie, Murtagh and Dougal all leap from the van with as much or even more energy than Mr. Graham ever did. I try to stand and follow them, but my ankle is so sore after a night of inactivity that it can bear no weight. I sit back and wait, knowing they will remember me eventually.

By now there is a great clamour on the surrounding pavement, as what must be the entire household comes out to meet us. Young men and old - some dressed for business and some for hard labour, old women and young - some uniformed and official-looking, some impressively dressed-up for this early in the day, and all ages of children spill out of the house to welcome back their travelers. Dougal especially, seems to need to greet every one of the milling crowd, just as they all seem to need to greet him.

"Uncle Dougal, Uncle Dougal! What'd ye bring me?" A childish voice raises above the din, and then the man himself raises a boy, about seven or eight years old, into his arms, swings him around, and laughingly smacks a giant kiss onto his forehead.

"Ewwwww, Uncle _DOUGAL_!" The child screams indignantly, and furiously wipes his forehead as the nearest in the crowd laugh.

"Aye, that's all ye get, like it or no'," says Dougal, cheerily. He puts the squirming boy down, and bellows, "Mrs. Fitz!". A stout, extremely capable looking woman pushes through the crowd at his call. He jerks his head in my direction, "We have company!"

The woman makes her way towards me, as Dougal goes back to his welcome.

She leans into the van, her smooth plump arms and neatly permed grey head giving her an air of almost preternatural imperturbability and confidence, "Ah, greetings lassie!"

I reach out a hand, as much for support as for greeting, "Hello, I'm Claire - Claire Beauchamp."

She takes my hand, and half lifts, half leads me out into the courtyard, "I'm properly known as Mrs. FitzGibbons, but everyone calls me Mrs. Fitz, and ye may as well begin as ye'er certain to end up. Twisted ankle?"

"Y-yes," I say, wincing as I limp, "I was camping outside Inverness and turned it on a rock."

"Weel, 'tis only a few steps over to the guest wing - Ye are an official Guest of Clan Mackenzie?"

I swivel my head, surveying the dwindling crowd, looking for anyone familiar, but they're all going inside, and the five faces I know are nowhere to be seen. My spirits droop a little. I had expected Jamie to forget me, but I didn't expect it would be quite this quickly. "I. . . don't know, Mrs. Fitz. I assume so. Dougal said I'd earned an audience with the Laird."

"Earned it?" She hustles me inside the left wing of the house, and down a short passageway to an open living space.

"Yes, their Land Rover broke down, but I managed to fix it."

"Ah," she says, looking dubiously at my attire, even as she settles me comfortably on a couch, "Are ye with Beaton and Sons?"

I pause. I can hardly tell her I have no idea who or what that is. . .

"Something. . . along those lines. . ." I gesture at my clothes to change the subject, "Rupert had managed to redirect coolant into the wrong chamber, and before I could fix it, it got all over my dress." Her eyes soften as she recognizes the name. "Murtagh found these for me to travel in."

She smiles broadly, "Oh, aye. 'Each according too their nature', dearie."

That doesn't seem to mean anything, but I press on, rooting around in the plastic bag I thankfully remembered to grab as I left the van, "Here it is, actually. And my stained bra too. I doubt you can do anything with them, but, it might be worth a try. . ." I hand them over, adding my now very rumpled cloak to the pile.

"Aye, I'll send them too the laundry, dinnae fash," she says as she unrolls and shakes out the cloak, looking with distaste at the grass and mud stains, "Does yer wee ankle need tendin'?"

I wince again as I shift my foot more comfortably onto the couch, "Maybe it does, but. . ."

"But ye'll be wanting breakfast and a bath first? Aye, and I'll send for some extra clothes for ye - ye look tae be about our Annie's size, an' she has enough and tae spare. . ."

My heart warms at her simple kindness, "Thank you, Mrs. Fitz, that sounds lovely," I lift the pouch of forest vegetables out of the bag next, "I know it's not much to offer, but it's all I have - mushrooms, alisanders and chestnuts - I don't doubt they're in some disarray now, but. . . well, they mustn't go to waste."

She takes the bag somewhat gingerly, "Aye, I'll tell the kitchens. . . an' if ye'll pardon me, but ye do seem to have come tae this pass by the strangest road."

I can't help smiling at that, "You have no idea, Mrs. Fitz."

She smiles, either in pity or compassion, and leaves for, I suppose, the kitchens and laundry.

Breakfast arrives surprisingly quickly after that. A grinning girl of fifteen or sixteen appears almost out of nowhere, and sets a tray on my lap. A large pot of tea, and lavish portions of porridge and cream, fruit preserves and butter sit next to an egg on toast, a saucer of sliced lemons, and small bowl of sugar.

"Welcome to Castle Leoch!" the girl says, blithely, before scuttling away, as quickly as she came.

And quite a welcome it is indeed. As I eat, I try to get my bearings. On this world. On this time. On myself.

The semi-professional power-salvage peddler camping on the Rim of Skycity 15 seems eons ago, instead of less than a week. And if time is counted by the number of things that happen to you, then, surely, it _has_ been an eon or two. The depressed, almost starving, last surviving Beauchamp on New Oxford, widowed, orphaned, made childless and destitute by World War IV - she very nearly no longer exists. Nor can she. Even the awed, curious, eager niece visiting her uncle on Cold Island 12 I must put far from me. Who I am now, who I must be, can bear almost no resemblance to those Claire Beauchamps.

I am in Scotland, the year is 2078. I have nothing but the clothes I wear, and the knowledge in my brain. Both of which are laughably inadequate for the time period I've landed in, so not only do I have less than nothing, what I do have is dangerous to me.

2078 is also in the middle of the British Col- no, I must call it the Third Scottish War of Independence. The Second Revolutionary Period is only just beginning. The Second Battle of Culloden won't happen for another three and half years. The Unity War hasn't happened yet. WWIII hasn't happened yet. Countries still exist. Most land is still habitable. The Earth has not been soaked in the radioactive poisons that drove us to the skies. Yet.

There are still horses, bees, boats, running water, castles, dogs and cats, fish in the ocean, and people on land.

And there are still political situations I don't understand, nor do I particularly wish to, but they will most likely have a massive impact on my life, so I must.

I have been taken in - however briefly or reluctantly - by one of the Clan Lairds who will very soon be taking part in ruling Scotland again.

And I have been attacked by one of Queen Victoria's Peace Agents and his men - the notorious Black Jack Randall, not a gambler as supposed, but a vicious, violent man - who, if Lamb is correct, and my eyes do not deceive me, is a forefather of Frank Randall, my late and dearly lamented husband. . . who is not due to be born for another hundred and fifty years. . .

It's enough to make my head whirl.

I need a story. As simple a one as possible. I've already used the camping explanation with Mrs. Fitz, so I have to keep that part. I also told her my name. Therefore, I must be Claire Beauchamp. That's something, at least - because I _am_ Claire Beauchamp.

But where am I from? An island in the North Atlantic seems most unlikely. And if anyone asks me straight out where I'm from, I'm going to automatically _say_ New Oxford, I know I will.

I decide must be from Oxford - not the city in southern England that was bombed into oblivion during WWIII, and certainly not the Skycity named in memorial of that city - but the city itself. The living, vibrant city I've never seen, on English soil that I've never trod, housing English people I've never met. That is where I must be from.

Me. Claire Beauchamp.

I must be an Englishwoman.

It feels very strange to think about myself that way. I wonder if I can pull it off.

I sigh a little, finishing the last bite of toast. I'll have to pull it off. I can't afford not to.

As for the rest of my back-story, I can't think of anything simpler than the almost-truth. I was born and educated in Oxford. My parents died eight years ago. My only uncle died when I was eleven. I am a currently jobless Farming Technician with a degree in Botany, on a camping trip, trying to reconcile herself to a life alone after her husband died in a. . . from a. . . because. . .

A house fire? A car crash? A pulmonary infarction? A stroke? Cancer? I can hardly say he was vaporized by an unexploded Blueblast charge. . . I have to pick some other way. . .

How on earth can I _choose_ a way for Frank to die? If I'd had any _real_ choice, he would never have died at all.

Needs must, Beauchamp. Make up your mind and do it.

Alright. An explosion at a sanitation plant seems the most supportable, and closest to the truth. The point is, I'm a widow. . .

I grip my teacup a good deal harder than necessary. Right, then. I'm a widow, who was on a camping trip, and I was set upon by ruffians at my campsite, and fled with nothing but what I was carrying at the time. I turned my ankle in the woods, and was trying to get to help when I ran across Black Jack.

I put down my teacup and lean back into the cushions. That's as simple as I'm going to get, I think. Whether or not it will stand up to scrutiny is another matter, but either way, I'll see soon.

"I see ye'ev enjoyed yer breakfast," says Mrs Fitz, returning without preamble, "Tha's encouragin'. I allus say there's nae much wrong wi' ye if ye can git 'round yer breakfast."

"Yes, thank you, it was delicious Mrs. Fitz."

She plumps down a pile of clothing on a nearby table, "Annie's given ye a good selection o' things tae start off with - an' she says tae tell her when ye need more and she'll take ye shoppin'.

"That's very kind of her. Will you tell her I'm deeply grateful?"

How funny. Lately it seems people are always giving me clothes. Mrs. Graham. Murtagh. Now Mrs. Fitz and Annie.

"Aye, that I will. But it's mostly an excuse tae go shoppin', ye ken. Annie'd gi' ye her whole left arm for a good excuse tae go inta town and spend money."

I laugh, "Well, she still has my thanks. Once I get cleaned up, you'll have to introduce me."

"Aye, that I will, dearie." She brings over a proper medical-grade crutch, "D'ye think ye'll be needing this, then?"

I flex my foot slightly, and consider. "I think it would be a good idea. My ankle isn't too bad, really, but I'll need to keep off of it for a few days."

She nods, and puts the crutch down on the couch beside me, "Aye. An' young Mr. MacTavish said tae tell ye he'll be in tae see tae yer foot in a hour or so."

Her face looks very bright and motherly when she mentions this Mr. MacTavish. He must be a personable young man, if she likes him that much. But not a doctor, I notice. Ah well. Not every castle in Scotland can have a live-in doctor. . .

"Tha's long enough for ye tae take a bath and freshen up first, if ye want," she says, with a peremptory gesture that says very clearly it's what _she_ wants.

I smile. No use arguing with this kind, generous, utterly invincible person.

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Fitz. If you'll show me the way?"

It takes a second for me to find my balance with the new crutch, but when I do, she leads me down a short hallway and through two large wooden doors, to a small, but highly comfortable looking guest room. She points at the small white-painted door in the corner across from me.

"The washroom is in there, dearie, all ready for ye. I'll jus' go shift yer clothes."

She stumps off to bring them, and when she returns, I've just closed the door of the washroom behind me. I hear her shuffle about a bit, and then she leaves. I exhale fully, for the first time in what seems like years. For the first time on this crazy, wild journey of mine, I don't feel watched, or chased, or at all like I need to defend myself.

I lean the crutch up against the wall, and survey the 200 year old plumbing I'll have to deal with. Instantly, I'm grateful to Mrs. Graham and the manse, because here, the wash basin, tub _and_ toilet all have running water. This is unprecedented for me. . . There is so much water here, they _relieve themselves in it_? I've heard of kitchens occasionally having a plumbed-in water spigot, but that's _always_ meant for drinking or cooking purposes. And of course, water vats are essential to any Skycity farming station. I had forgotten people ever bathed in tubs of water until Mrs. Graham had showed me the one at the manse. That's the only preparation I have for. . . this. I go over and inspect the toilet more closely. Everything about it seems normal, except for the liter or two of water resting in the basin of it. It smells like perfectly clean, potable water too. . .

I've never even _dreamed_ that people could. . . that people _would_. . . re-contaminate their clean water like this.

Biological waste re-contamination is bad enough when we're talking about plants on a hydroponic farming station. But _Human_ biological waste? On Skycities, raw Human waste and potable water don't get within ten meters of each other, _ever_. The only vague exception is if you consider the greywater treatment plants that clean and filter the water used by steamshower stations.

I push the "clear" button on the toilet, and watch in somewhat stunned horror as the water almost instantly disappears, and who knows how much _more_ actually sprays down the inside.

How much, in total? Two liters? Three? Four? Certainly enough to buy food and warmth for several days. Just. . . wasted.

And, what is more, commonly wasted far more literally than I could ever have imagined. I'm breathless with the sheer _arrogance_ of it. . .

But, this is what they have here. And this is what I'm going to have to use, no matter if I like it or not.

This is going to take some getting used to. . .

I decide to take a shower first, and it's a good thing I do, because there is a fiendishly complicated set of mechanisms used to choose hot or cold water, where and how to direct it, and how strong or gentle that spray of water is to be. I would never have thought two knobs, three switches and one button could be so inconsistent and confusing, but, by the time I'm done, I've been doused in freezing water twice, nearly scalded once, sprayed in the face three times, and emerged more sodden and drippy than I've ever imagined a Human body could be.

And after I'm finally dry, it still takes another ten minutes for me to work up the impudence to use the toilet.

The liquid soap next to the handwashing basin smells wonderful though. There's a hand-inked label on it saying "Soapwort and Wintergreen", two herbs I know about, but have never seen or used until now. There was a bottle in the shower too, that I used on my hair and skin. It has left a wonderfully clean texture behind, and a soft, deep smell that I find both vaguely familiar, and inexplicably comforting.

When I finally emerge back into the main room, I find a full set of clothes laid out on the bed for me, including a pair of ridiculously fluffy house-slippers.

I laugh, even as I shake my head. I think I'm going to like this Annie person.

I dress as hastily as I can, hoping Mr. MacTavish won't mind me taking a good deal more than the hour he stipulated. . .

I tap-bump with my new crutch back into the main living room, and when I go though the big arched doorway, the first person I see is an utterly unmistakable tall, red-headed man.

"Jamie!" I say, grinning so wide I must look incredibly foolish, but I don't care.

"Ah, so ye've met Mr. MacTavish, have ye?" says Mrs Fitz.

The grin freezes on my face, "We've. . . been introduced," I say, evasively.

"Aye, ee's usually drivin' the horses, and ye were in the van, dearie, so I didnae ken if ye'd met. Himself has sent word - yer tae join the high table at supper."

"Is that good?"

"That's very good," she pats Jamie's arm as she passes by him, "Ye take care o' th'lass now, d'ye hear me, wee Jamie?" She turns and gives him a teasingly stern look that has a surprising amount of real steel behind it.

Jamie nods solemnly, "Aye Mrs. Fitz. I hear."

She nods, once at each of us, and goes back to her duties.

I've resettled my foot back on the same couch as before. Neither of us break the silence, and he doesn't turn to look at me.

If he's hoping I'll let this slide, he's dealing with the wrong woman.

"So. . ." I say, finally, "Mr. MacTavish, is it?"

At last, he turns and meets my gaze, a slightly abashed grin on his face, "Weel, when a man's on the run, he has to be somewhere, and he has to be someone. An' preferably that's no' at home, nor himself."

I raise my eyebrows and smile, "Well then. Mr. MacTavish," I gesture at my foot, "Are you going to play doctor with me now?"

Several emotions cross his face before he schools his expression to a mildly stern sort of abstraction, "Nae, I think ye'r quite capable of doctorin' yerself," he hands me the small pot of ointment I didn't notice he was holding until now, "I'll jus'. . ." he turns to leave.

"Don't go!" I say, all the teasing gone from my voice, "Stay and talk to me, at least." I pull my foot up into my lap, and begin to clumsily unwrap the long bandage.

For a long few seconds he just watches me. Then, he gives a soft, sighing "agch!" and says, resignedly, "Let me!"

I stop, and my eyes follow him as he pulls a chair over to my couch. Then, with infinite tenderness, he lifts my foot onto his thigh. He deftly rolls the bandage up as he removes it, then opens the jar, and starts to spread a cool, soothing cream on my still bruised and swollen ankle. His touch is so light it would tickle were it not for the thin layer of ointment.

That, and the electricity between us, of course. Physical contact with him like this feels totally different than either in the cupboard or the van. Here, we both chose our positions, both clearly want them. Just being in each other's presence is flirting, and as for his fingers taking care of my ankle. . . He is being quite businesslike and straightforward about it, but I can see his jaw is clenched tight, and there's more than delicacy behind his touch being so feather-light.

When he took up my leg, for just a moment, I felt him tremble.

He is finishing re-wrapping the bandage when I find the courage to say, "You have a very healing touch, Mr. MacTavish."

He puts my foot gently back on the couch, then slides off his chair to kneel down next to me, leaning on the cushions so we are eye to eye. "Is tha' so?"

I nod, and reach out to run my fingers down the collar of his shirt. He too has bathed and changed since we got here, his hair still damp and dark. "You didn't learn all that just by bandaging up your - what was it, three brothers? - now, did you?"

He shakes his head, "Nae. I didnae."

Somehow he's closer now, almost looming over me, but I could still put out a hand and easily push him away.

I don't.

His mouth is so much softer than I was expecting, so much warmer and cooler and more exciting, that I almost don't mind when he leaves my lips and kisses up my cheekbone to my ear.

"I was hopin' ye'd taste so sweet," he whispers, then starts down my neck.

"Were you?" I say, far more focused on what he's doing to me than what he's saying.

"Mmm," he hums against my collarbone, "Ye dinnae ken what ye did tae me in that cupboard, Claire. I wilnae be able tae muck out a stall ever again without thinkin' of the shape and smell of ye. . ."

His mouth is back over mine before I can agree. The fingers of one of his hands tangle in my hair, even as my fists take handfuls of his shirt, holding him to me. His other hand slowly caresses down my side, coming to rest cupping my hip, and finally I can't stand it. I moan. My suspicions were right about him. He's a _perfect_ lover.

Lover.

The word dashes through my brain, turning my blood to ice water. I grip his wrists and fling his hands away from me. He starts back, shocked and hurt, but I can't deal with him now. Shame, fear and loss, three things I only rarely felt before Frank died, but have been my almost constant companions ever since, have risen up to engulf me. I've been thinking about Jamie since I met him, yes, but _that word_ has never intruded until now.

Lover.

You are a horrible person, Claire Beauchamp.

My head is in my hands, and I am almost hyperventilating, my whole being focused on holding back a frantic storm of tears.

Lover.

You don't deserve anything but misery, Claire Beauchamp.

I hear Jamie stand, and start to back away.

Desperately, I reach out to him, but I catch only the knee of his trouser leg.

"Don't go! I have to explain!" I gasp.

"Ye dinnae _have_ tae-"

"Please! Let me!"

Without a word, he shifts his chair closer to me, and sits down again.

Slowly, I push the feelings down, beat back the awful self-recriminatory things it is all too easy for me to tell myself, and gradually get my breathing under control.

Finally, I look up, eyes stinging, but dry.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, his face blank, his eyes more confused than hurt, "I. . . jus' thought ye were enjoying it."

"I was! I. . . mean, I am. I mean, I do!" I give a frustrated sigh, "Look, can I back up?"

He nods, and waits for me to speak.

Suddenly, I'm not quite sure where to back up to.

"You know that we. . . that everyone. . . has a past, right, Jamie?"

His brow knits up, sternly, "Aye."

"Well, my past includes a husband. And a child. Who both died."

He takes my hand, not in pity - which I can almost always detect, and _always_ hate - but in a similar way that Lamb had gripped my shoulder. Supportive. Comforting. Almost like he also has a tragic past.

Stupid. He's wanted for murder, of _course_ he has a tragic past. . .

"After we lost our baby-" I start, then stop. I've never actually said those words aloud before. They taste strange in my mouth. I have to say them again, if only to rid my tongue of the acrid bitterness of it. "After we lost our baby, our doctor said that. . . it was a problem caused by. . . well, the Y chromosome."

His runs his thumb across the ridge of my knuckles, "Meanin' it were yer husband's. . ." He stops, not wanting to say the obvious next word.

"Fault?" I finish for him, only just keeping back a vicious curse or two, "Yes. Genetically speaking, anyway. It would be dangerous for him to ever try to have children again. But I still loved him."

"A'course ye did."

"He told me that I was enough for him, but that if I wanted a child, we'd do whatever it took to get one. We could adopt. We could find a donor. Or. . ."

He grips my hand a little, spurring me on with his touch, "Yes? Or?"

"Or I could find a lover, if I wanted."

He is silent for a long few seconds, then shakes his head, "I take it yer husband had never heard of a certain Lady Chatterley, et. al.?"

"No. But I had."

And I've spent a considerable amount of time since Frank's death trying to banish the memory of the twisted, malformed, stunted soul that was the character of Sir Clifford Chatterley - the kind of man who would ever suggest such a thing to his wife in the first place, and who then became such a gross inversion of himself that he not only ensured his wife _would_ leave him, he ruined what was left of his own life in the process.

"So, ye didnae do it?"

"I didn't have a chance," I say, forlornly. "We argued about it. I said some terrible things, so did he."

I pause, almost afraid to say what happened then, but I know I have to.

"And the next day, he died. I never got to apologize. And he never knew how much I loved him."

Jamie is silent a long time, working though all the implications of that.

"So. . . when I was kissin' ye. . ."

I shake my head, "No, the kisses were lovely." I briefly squeeze the hand that's holding mine, "I've been thinking about. . . you. . . what you'd. . . be like. . . ever since the cupboard too. Actually, even before that. And I'm fairly certain I dreamed about it last night."

"So then, why. . ."

"When you took hold of my hip, it was. . . it was like Frank was holding me again. And kissing you at the same time. . . it felt like. . . like. . ."

"Cheating?"

I nod, thankful he said the word so I don't have to.

"Even though he gave ye permission?"

" _Especially_ since he gave me permission."

"I see. Ye are a woman of honour, Claire-"

He looks at me expectantly, and I realize I haven't told him my last name yet.

"Beauchamp."

He nods, "Ye are a woman of honour, Claire Beauchamp. I'm sorry I touched yer hip."

"Don't be sorry," I say, meaning it with all my heart, "Just. . . be patient?"

"Right then," he stands up and very slowly puts his hands behind his back, "Hands to meself." His face is mockingly serious, but his tone is so solemn, I know he's not making fun of me.

Then he kneels again, and with his hands still behind him, he leans forward to kiss me some more.


	20. Screening Process

It's been ages since I've had to dress for dinner. The last time was. . . I try to remember. . . twelve, maybe thirteen years ago? It was the last time my parents invited me to their anniversary party before I met Frank. If I recall correctly, the theme had been "New Paris Nights". There was an omelette bar, and champagne, and everyone had to dress in either pink or black. Just another sumptuous, frivolous affair in the Spire of Skycity 15.

I doubt supper with the Laird will be anywhere near such an event, but still. . . I look down at the three outfits I've laid out, wondering which one would be the most appropriate.

Mrs. Fitz and Annie have done well by me - perhaps too well. They have provided a long wine-coloured skirt of some shimmery, flowing material, and there is a mid-tone grey blouse - abundantly trimmed with flourishes of wine lace - to go with it. If this was any time before 2055, I wouldn't have to think about it, this would be the dressiest, most "eating in public" thing here. No matter that the skirt lining is strangely fitted, itchy, and utterly irritating, and that I find the fancy, frilly lace all over the blouse ugly in the extreme. This would be "what to wear", and I would wear it. Simplicity itself.

But it's 2078, which means it has been over 20 years since Prince Bennet came out as Princess Victoria, and nearly ten since she became Queen Victoria The Second. My general knowledge of the time period isn't extensive, but I remember enough of my basic history to know that many beauty standards and cultural norms that had been waiting generations for a change, took this opportunity to do so.

Which means the sleeveless neon-purple jumpsuit with a pale yellow knitted mesh overtunic might be more expected for an event like "supper with the Laird". I've always looked awful in neons, and yellow does me no favours, but it is the boldest outfit here, and the most likely to make an impression. Even if on me it would probably be a silly impression, embarrassing to everyone present. Like my father often said - there are three kinds of formal occasions: those where the guests are uncomfortable, those where the hosts are uncomfortable, and those where everyone is uncomfortable. When you have a choice, pick the third. It's only fair.

But then again, this _is_ Scotland, and. . .

I hold up the elbow-sleeved princess-cut dress of a dark grey and soft blue tartan, and sigh. Not only is it unquestionably the prettiest thing here, it's timeless, respectful, comfortable when I tried it on, flattering to my figure, and its colours are something anyone would look good in. Frankly, I'm surprised Annie was willing to let me have it. But would it be "too on the nose"? And should a Sassenach be wearing tartan in a formal situation with a clan Laird?

I don't know, and I'm tired of thinking about it. I have a few hours until suppertime, maybe I could go find Mrs. Fitz and ask her?

I hop on my good leg over to the desk and sit down. No, I don't want to go stumbling all over the place, just to ask her a suspicious kind of question like "What should I wear tonight?". This really is the sort of thing I should _know_. I might be able to pass it off as "Sassenach ignorance" or something, but if I'd actually spent my life in this society, it wouldn't be _that_ difficult a choice. Certainly not the kind of thing that someone with a sprained ankle would go wandering about looking for the housekeeper to ask.

I sigh again. I miss Jamie. Getting him to help me would be so easy. I'd just ask which one he liked, and then he'd go on about the good points of all of them so freely and volubly, that I'd have no problem picking up all the social details I need, just by listening to the subtext. And maybe the text.

The dear man is unquestionably intelligent, and obviously clever, but wily? I don't think he is that. And subtle he _definitely_ is not, but he's a _very_ good kisser, and the most emotionally intelligent man I've met here so far, both of which count for a lot in my book.

He's also the only one I'd trust in my bedroom. . .

But there's no use thinking about that now. He left me hours ago, saying he had to "Muck out those stables, tho' t'will be even worse now" - by which I assume he means "mucking out" is an unpleasant thing in general, and doubly so after you've spent half an hour kissing someone you find attractive.

Although, I do admit, after half an hour of kissing Jamie, even things I was excited about before seem mildly unpleasant in comparison. So I can relate.

After he left, I'd sat dreamily on my couch, replaying it all in my head for an embarrassingly long time. It wasn't until Mrs. Fitz herself arrived with my lunch that I'd remembered the outside world, with all of its cold realities.

"Agh, ye look so much bettar for a visit with Mr. MacTavish, dear."

"Yes. Or "Wee Jamie", as you called him."

"Aye, so I did. He used to visit here during summers when he were a wee lad. I always called him that. Suppose I never gave up the habit."

"He told _me_ his name was James Fraser."

She looked at me sharply then, visibly weighing up if I was friend or foe. "An' did he tell ye why he must no' be called that for the time bein'?"

"No, not in so many words. But I assume the warrant for murder has something to do with it."

Her eyes went wide, "And ye believe he's innocent?"

"Of that, certainly."

She had shaken her head, "An' ye only knowin' each other a few hours. . ."

"Sometimes that's all it takes, Mrs. Fitz."

She'd patted my shoulder, and left me with a huge bowl of stew, and a whole loaf of soda bread. I didn't recognize the meat in the stew, but it tasted no stronger than the haggis yesterday.

I lean back and pat my stomach at the memory. I'd only made it halfway through the meal before I was, miraculously, impossibly, full. I haven't been full since the last time Frank pulled in all six of his power panel sets in one week, and the profits meant we could afford to go to our favorite Central caf. And even then, wartime rationing had forbidden us to take any leftovers home.

I grin at the bowl and basket I've put beside me on the desk, and reach over to break off a bite of bread from the basket. I'd forgotten how _happy_ having food left over after a meal makes me. It's as if, for just a minute, the world itself is on your side. Like the very planet wants you to survive.

Survival. . . I look over at the bed and frown. The hard truth is, I'm not going to survive this adventure of mine unless I make some allies, and fast. Allies who have influence enough to keep me safe for as long as I'm here. Allies who can provide, if not stability, then at least a few formidable resources. Dougal and his brother The Laird are my best chance at that. I can't count on finding another. Wearing the right clothes to supper might be a good step towards earning their trust, or they might find it a negligible point. Either way, I figure it can't hurt. . .

I stare for a long time at the deactivated info-screen sitting on the desk. I've avoided using it, because I know how easy it is to track user-information. Dougal has been suspicious of me from the start, and he's the exact opposite of a fool. I'd honestly be shocked if they haven't already Shadowed the device. I _could_ use it to go search for "proper dress code clan laird supper", but it would be wasted effort, since they'd know I searched for it. There's dozens of things I _want_ to look up, but I can't afford to have them know about. I could double-shadow, I suppose, but then all they'd see is my interface activate, and nothing happen after that. Which, if they have a visual on me, would mean two, maybe three minutes until someone notices something is up.

If they have a visual. . .

_Shit!_

Why didn't I think of cameras until now? Video feeds, microphones - they might have seen and heard my entire interaction with Jamie. Which probably wouldn't be fatal, since we'd limited ourselves to kissing, and I'd been very careful not to give away anything era-specific about Frank, but I still don't exactly want to _share_ either of those things with the general public.

And if there's one camera - or more! - in my room, the most they could possibly have seen was me in my underwear. Not a big deal. Unless they've bugged the shower, which seems a tiny bit over the top, even for Dougal.

I grab my crutch, and start searching. Behind shelves, under tables, around decorations, and in between knicknacks. The room is small, thankfully, but there is a lot of stuff scattered around. In the end, I find only one device I recognize - a small cube disguised to look like wood, exactly matching the small cubic finial atop the other side of the fancy carved wooden posts holding up the mirror of the dressing table. I only realized it was fake because one of my fingers brushed against it while searching behind the mirror. Plastic, not wood. Directed right to where I'd sit to put on my bra and socks. And it looks like it has the bed in view too. The perfect angle to watch me at my most vulnerable times.

I sneer, and am about to wrench it away, when I realize one side is glowing red, just the slightest bit. I know that's the active "eye" of the camera, but this one is not glowing how I expected. It is not the forward-facing side that's red, but the top. Someone has installed it incorrectly.

My sneer turns into a smirk, and I scramble as fast as I can over to the info-screen, and triumphantly turn it on. It glows to life, blue-white and deceptively innocent as each loading screen completes.

~accessing~. . .

~database found~. . .

~loading network~. . .

~access granted~

Then six or seven icons appear, on a background of the same grey and blue tartan as the dress currently laid out on my bed. The icons are labeled in English, and all make perfect sense. Everything is here that should be here, and there's nothing extra.

But there was also no entry code, no security barrier. The epitome of an unsecured workstation. They want me to do this - no way they aren't watching.

I glance over at the useless camera, and smile bitterly.

Or, at least _trying_ to watch.

Instead of immediately going to a search engine, as I'm sure Dougal thinks I will, I type in the command for a code interface. It pops up, and I ask it for a network overview. It grinds on that for a minute, then gives me two possibles, and asks if I want to search for them. I tell it yes. This OS is a little bit different than the one I'm used to, but most of the advances in computer tech in the past 200 years have been in data storage and miniaturization, not programming or the user-interface.

Now, I'm no hacker, but I know most of the common tricks. Growing up in Central, I learned the basics as a matter of course, since Navigation Control is one of the few places considered prestigious enough for Central workers. Later, I learned a lot more from Professor Smithson - who insisted that _all_ bio-engineers be able to do their own programming, no matter if their major was Hydroponics or Historical Botany.

Two windows pop up, one with a network map, and one with an activity matrix. Interesting. Whoever has removed the security on this device has failed to isolate it properly. I have access to the rest of the network.

Well, that's two screwups. I'm going to bet on three.

I find where I am on the map, and click for stealth options. Only Private and Mirror show up, and my pulse quickens. If the words mean the same thing as in my usual OS, then maybe this device _isn't_ Shadowed. Maybe it's only Mirrored. Meaning they can see everything I type, but I can tell when they do.

And I can Mirror back. If I Shadow myself first, they won't even know. . .

I go back to the code interface and ask for shadowing options. It takes me several tries to understand how to do it with this OS, but a few minutes later, I've self-shadowed my device, cleaned up the Mirrored window, and am ready to begin.

I open a search engine where I know they can see me if they're watching. I type in "what to do if my Personal ID card has been stolen".

I truly want to know this, so I ask the same thing in my Shadow window. I click back and forth, gathering information, writing down contacts, and keeping half an eye on the Network Activity window, when one of the local network locations on the map lights up. A moment later, another one does too. The Activity map shows direct messaging between those devices, so I go into my Shadow window, and Mirror both of them.

An active text box shows up in the corner of my screen.

-o-I-o-

 **BigBull:** Witchy Woman has engaged her user interface.

 **PertDragRacer:** Oh goody. Anything worth looking at?

 **BigBull:** Not yet.

 **PertDragRacer:** Damn.

-o-I-o-

I think I've found my two screwups.

If that isn't Angus and Rupert, I'll eat my bra.

And screwups is the word, because the network maps and code interface appeared in the Mirrored window, and they thought nothing of them. If they knew _anything_ about what they're doing, they'd already know I've penetrated the hell out of their nonexistent security.

Where I know they can see me, I search for "meaning Gaelic word Sassenach".

Where I know they can't see me, I search for "Oxford city map and history".

I know I probably don't have much time, but I scan the map of Oxford for several minutes, and watch three street walkthroughs of residential areas. Almost at once, I see that the part of my story about an explosion at a sanitation plant is a wildly improbable way for Frank to have died. Absolutely, if they are watching me now, however ineptly, then they will follow up whatever story I tell them about my past, and I dare not be as inept as them.

Where they can see, I search for "jobs farm technician Scottish Highlands".

I actually want to know that too, but I'm pressed for time, so I search in the Shadow window - "Oxford registrar's office".

I pull up some official Oxford City records, just to see what their security is like. It isn't too bad, unless you want into the financial records of City officials, but I couldn't care less about those. I go into Births, Deaths, and Marriages, bring up a page on Home Ownership and Registration, open an image editing program in my Shadow window, and get to work.

It takes almost an hour, and several more phony searches where I know Angus and Rupert can see me, but I manage to forge a paper trail for myself and Frank. I was born Claire Moriston - actually my mother's maiden name - and there is now a birth certificate to show it. I have a degree in botany from Oxford, and all the certificates to prove it now exist, a matter of public record. I married Frank Beauchamp eight and a half years ago, he died almost five years ago, and our marriage license and his death certificate are on record. I decide he died in a car crash. Apparently that is much more common. Therefore, harder to track down. We lived in a little house in an unremarkable part of town. I was lucky with that - I managed to find a house that has recently burned down. Both our names are now on the lease, though, and I have a better excuse than ever as to why I came to Scotland. I even go into the records of a local Oxford car rental place and attach my name to a recently lost car of theirs. That's how I got to Scotland, and when I was "attacked at my campsite", clearly the car was stolen.

In order to get an official ID card "replacement", I have to request my birth certificate, and go though several legal hoops. I'll deal with those when the time comes. To start the process though, I go back to where they can see me, and send a formal request for the birth certificate I just forged for myself.

I don't know how much more time I have - Ha! What a dilemma for a time traveler! - but only now do I do something that, perhaps, I ought to have done from the start.

I make sure it's 2078.

It is.

It's November 2, Anno Domini, Two-Thousand and Seventy-Eight.

Seeing the letters and numbers glowing on the screen somehow makes the reality of my situation forcefully real again.

I've just committed who knows how many felonies, so I can continue to deceive the people who rescued me, all because I can't tell them that I'm actually from 200 years in the future.

I've never really believed the phrase "Truth is stranger than fiction" until now. . .

I'm finally closing stuff down, purging the memory as I go, when Angus and Rupert start chatting again.

-o-I-o-

 **PertDragRacer:** Hey, anything interesting yet?

 **BigBull:** No.

 **PertDragRacer:** What's she doing?

 **BigBull:** Lot of boring legit stuff.

 **PertDragRacer:** So she is who she says she is?

 **BigBull:** Looks like it.

-o-I-o-

I wonder now. . .

If these two believe me, then that's almost as good as Dougal believing me. They're his pawns, so he probably doesn't 100% trust them, but if I throw a spanner in the works, then maybe, _maybe_ something can develop.

I close down everything in the Mirrored screen except one search window.

Time to mess with their fool heads.

-o-I-o-

 **BigBull:** Pull the footage from the cameras while we wait.

 **PertDragRacer:** Right. Downloading now.

 **BigBull:** Don't forget to leave them on passive mode.

 **PertDragRacer:** Um. . . oops?

 **BigBull:** Have they not been on passive this whole time?

 **PertDragRacer:** Don't think so?

 **BigBull:** Shite! Switch them and switch them fast.

 **PertDragRacer:** What's the rush?

 **BigBull:** Idiot. Active cameras glow. Passive ones don't.

 **PertDragRacer:** Oh.

 **BigBull:** Exactly. We don't want Witchy Woman noticing she's being watched.

 **PertDragRacer:** Fine, fine. Switched to passive mode now.

 **BigBull:** Have you pulled that footage yet?

 **PertDragRacer:** Christ, give me two seconds.

-o-I-o-

I type in the search "poisonous mushrooms Scotland Inverness"

-o-I-o-

 **BigBull:** Whoa.

 **PertDragRacer:** What?

 **BigBull:** Notify the kitchens. Those fungi Witchy Woman gave MFG might be poisonous.

 **PertDragRacer:** Whoa.

 **BigBull:** I already said that. Just tell them, will you?

 **PertDragRacer:** Okay okay. Doing it now.

-o-I-o-

I search for "average Scottish male's penis size".

-o-I-o-

 **BigBull:** Whoa.

 **PertDragRacer:** You already said that. What?

 **BigBull:** Whoa.

 **PertDragRacer:** WHAT?

 **BigBull:** I think our wee Jamie might have gotten lucky this morning.

 **PertDragRacer:** Not bloody likely!

 **BigBull:** Well, I cannot think of anyone else who can get close enough to Witchy Woman to show her their dangle.

 **PertDragRacer:** You're kidding me.

 **BigBull:** Nope.

 **PertDragRacer:** Lucky bastard.

 **BigBull:** You're telling me!

-o-I-o-

I go into their chat-app and create an account. From my Shadow window, it doesn't even ask for a password. I shake my head. These two are _impossible._ I can't even dislike them anymore. They're too adorable.

I also take a minute to set up my endgame code, and cue it up in its own Shadow window.

-o-I-o-

 **PertDragRacer:** Okay. Got the camera footage. Watching on quick speed.

 **BigBull:** Finally.

 **PertDragRacer:** Yeah, whatever. Camera 1 was only engaged for 45 minutes. We got some prime footage of Witchy Woman eating. Then something bumps the camera or the clip failed or something. I think it fell into the vase where we asked MFG to put it. It wasn't waterproof, so it fizzled.

 **BigBull:** Told you that was a bad anchor point.

 **PertDragRacer:** Yeah, yeah, yeah, go jag off somewhere else. Camera 2 is still recording visuals, but all we're getting is footage of the ceiling, and no audio.

 **BigBull:** Did you explain how to install it properly? MFG isn't dumb. . .

 **PertDragRacer:** I explained it fine. She just put it in wrong. No big deal, we can shift it tomorrow. The Dungeon Master says not to worry about tonight's visuals too much, it's the mirror feed that's the important part.

 **BigBull:** And that's still working. Right, got it.

-o-I-o-

If ever there was an entrance cue, that's it.

-o-I-o-

 **SassyNeck:** So, you two screwups have never heard of a shadow feed, I take it?

 **BigBull:** Who is this?

 **SassyNeck:** Take a wild guess, Angus.

 **PertDragRacer:** Um. . .

 **SassyNeck:** Hi Rupert!

 **BigBull:** How did you. . .

 **SassyNeck:** Oh, well, let's see. Witchy Woman? I have to assume the only magic you've seen lately was me pulling your Trawler back from the brink of fiery doom, so that's obvious.

 **SassyNeck:** And then, MFG = Mrs. FitzGibbons. That was BARELY a code name, guys. Like, you didn't even try.

 **SassyNeck:** I mean, if you're GOING to suck, at least suck HARDER, you know?

 **SassyNeck:** And Dungeon Master? DM? As in Dougal Mackenzie? That's. . . a LITTLE bit better, I'll grant that.

 **SassyNeck:** But not by much.

 **SassyNeck:** After that, there were only two possibilities who "Big Bull" was, and I seriously doubt Rupert has ever been a "big" anything, so. . . yeah.

 **SassyNeck:** WOW, you goofs are bad at this.

-o-I-o-

There's a pause long enough for me to assume they've called in backup. Maybe even Dougal himself, if he wasn't there already. I go into their applications and set up an emergency cutoff. When I'm done, I can knock the whole app off the server with one push of a button.

But not yet. . .

-o-I-o-

 **PertDragRacer:** This app is password protected. How'd you get on?

 **SassyNeck:** You watched me use a multi-tool and a soldering iron to fix the Artex 680 semi-fusion plasma drive engine that _you_ almost exploded, and you ask me how I figured out your in-house chat-app password?

 **SassyNeck:** Amateurs, the both of you.

 **BigBull:** Yeah, but a mechanic isn't a hacker.

 **SassyNeck:** I never said I was a mechanic. Or a hacker.

 **PertDragRacer:** So, what are you then?

 **SassyNeck:** A witch. Duh.

 **BigBull:** Hold on - did YOU scuttle the cameras?

-o-I-o-

Actually, I don't know what happened with the cameras. Not for sure. But I have a guess or two.

I can see I'm going to have to talk to Mrs. Fitz after supper.

Not that I can let them know any of that. . .

-o-I-o-

 **SassyNeck:** Right, like I'm ever going to let losers like you two ogle my tits. Nice try though. Next time, don't be so ridiculously obvious about your hiding spots, and maybe I'll let you see my bare shoulders before I crush your little spy cameras.

 **PertDragRacer:** You know, "sassy neck" isn't all that clever a code name either. . .

 **SassyNeck:** Uh-huh. You assume I was trying to hide. 'K, I'm going to kick you off the network now, boys. See you at supper. (You too Dougal, if you're watching!)

-o-I-o-

I hit the app's emergency cutoff, and run my endgame code. For two hours, their devices will display nothing but a bright orange banner with the text "Welcome To Boston!" on it. A tribute to my old school friends in Central. We would often go to Central Port, and try to trick the officials into letting us put "Welcome To New Boston" on the banner that greeted arrivals instead of "Welcome to New Oxford". We succeeded for ten minutes once. Eighteen arrivals from Skycity 20 were, briefly, very confused. It was a day to remember, and is the best memory I have from my school years.

As fast as I can, I close down windows and purge memory. They're probably on their way to get me now, if they're going to do it at all.

I quickly stamp across the room, knock the little cubic camera off the dressing table, and smash it with the foot of my crutch. There's that, then.

Soberly, I go into the common room. There are several vases, but the only one with water in it is on the table where Mrs. Fitz put down that large stack of clothes. And then she went to fetch them, _after_ I was in my room already. No one else has gone near that particular table. Not Jamie, or the girl who brought me breakfast.

A smile halfway, feeling a bit grim, but still encouraged. It looks like I already have one ally, at least.

No - two. There is Jamie.

Possibly Murtagh as well, come to think of it. And Angus and Rupert may yet come around if I can insult them often enough, they're that kind.

But Dougal. . .

This whole episode is his mistrust of me, I know that. And for the immediate future, I've only made that worse.

But maybe I've laid the groundwork for something else, too. Who knows? The venture is all, at this point.

I go back to my bedroom and survey the three outfits again.

The first one - I am uncomfortable.

The second one - they are uncomfortable.

The third one - everyone is uncomfortable.

Best to wear the tartan dress. Fair is fair. If anyone calls me on it, I'll say it was the only thing on offer that I could wear comfortably while using a crutch. It won't be a lie, and let everyone - Dougal included - wonder what message I'm trying to send by wearing tartan to meet His Brother The Laird. It's not like I really know for sure myself.

I sit down at the dressing table, and stare for a second at the deathly determined look on my face.

Slowly, I relax, then take up a brush, and begin to do my hair.

I'm not going to meet the Laird. He's going to meet _me_.


	21. Grilled Rabbit

Mrs. Fitz sends Annie to fetch me for supper. I'm just about to step into my dress when a soft knock sounds at my door.

"Come in!" I say, without thinking.

A tallish young woman, about my build, but younger, and intensely redheaded, steps in with a prompt, "Oh dear!", and immediately averts her eyes.

"It's alright," I say, contorting myself so I can pull up the zipper, "We're all girls together."

She looks up, a bit tentatively, "Aye. . . ah. . . Annie Campbell, Miss Claire," she holds out her hand.

I take it, with a grin, "Oh, it's you I have to thank for the clothes, I think?"

"Aye, do ye like them?"

"Very much." I settle the knee-length skirt of the tartan dress across my hips. "Of course, my personal tastes differ on some minor points. . ."

"Oh, a'coorse!" I reach for my crutch, leaned up against the desk, but before I can hop towards it, Annie rushes to hand it to me, "Ye wilnae forget tae say when ye want moor? There's a lovely little dress shop in Cranesmuir, an' two wee outlets for shoos, an' one just for makeup. There's even a spa over in Broch Mordha, iff'n ye want tae make a day of it, an' I've heard Mrs. Hart has a new girl in from Edinburgh who can do yer nails fair braw."

I smile, even though I only understand about half of what she's saying - and not just because of her accent. An "outlet" and a "spa" are places I don't understand, and I've no idea what "doing your nails" can possibly consist of beyond cleaning and trimming them properly. . .

"It all sounds lovely, but can you afford to do all that? Especially with a guest like me?"

She leads me through my rooms, and out into the house proper.

"Oh, aye! Uncle Colum takes good care o' his family. I'm assistant maid to Mrs. Fitz hersel' - I've more than a fair wage."

"Colum? He's the Laird, I take it?"

"Himself! Has nae'un named him to ye yet?"

"No. But that's alright. And your wages weren't what I meant, Annie."

"Were they no'?"

"No, I meant, can you afford to take a whole day off to show a stranger around?" I raise the crutch as emphasis, "I'm a bit slow-moving at the moment - any sort of trip into any town is likely to take all day."

"Well is'no' like I'm a _searvant,_ am I? Colum is a distant cousin, actually, no' an uncle - but ee's been very good tae me. Ee's allus gi'en me a day off when'ere I wanted it before, and ye'er a best reason!"

"Am I?"

"Aye!" she goes and waits demurely in front of a large arched double door at the top of three shallow steps. As I slowly work my way up them, she opens the doors, and makes a bow to me that I think is called a "curtsy", "Hospitality to visitors is a matter of family honour, Miss Claire."

If that's so, then the dining room is a magnificent example of MacKenzie family honour. I've read about things like vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, wine coloured carpets, tables draped in snowy-white linen and adorned with rows of candles set in amid flowery centerpieces - and I've seen pictures - but. . .

I decide there aren't words to describe what I'm feeling, so I just follow Annie into the room, mouth closed, and eyes wide.

Apparently, the big double-leaved door is only a _side-entrance_ to the dining room - one of six side-entrances - and there are seven in total. One immensely long table runs down the center of the room, seeming to fill the space, though I think the room itself is broad enough to accommodate two long tables in parallel. One much shorter table is set lengthwise at one end - to the left as I entered - like a cross to a "T". Everything is crowded with glittering tableware and colourful flowers, lit by bright flickering candles and the glowing crystal clouds above us.

If it were up to me, I wouldn't want to do anything so crude as _eating_ in this room - I'd just want to sit and look.

Annie leads me over to what I assume is the "high table" - though it is on the same level as the other. Mrs. Fitz is there, speaking to a small crowd of men and women in very stiff-looking black and white livery, giving them instructions, and running down a few checklists. I'm not the only person dressed for dinner in the room by far - at least two dozen other people are gathered in small groups on either side of the long table, and their numbers are only growing - but I am the only one who has been led this close to Mrs. Fitz and the High Table. I briefly wonder if there are any other guests besides me here tonight, or if they are all employees and family.

Or both. . .

"Ah, good, ye're heer," says Mrs. Fitz, turning to us, slightly breathless, "It wouldnae doo tae be late yer furst night, Mrs. Beauchamp, an' I need tae tell ye aboot the ceremony of the Entrance-" her eye is caught by one of the men in black and white livery, "Ooo, Mr. Crane, a moment!" she glances apologetically and slightly frantically at Annie and me, then scuttles off to do her job.

I grin, not at all worried. Not, that is, until Annie leans over to me, shamefaced, whispering fast and low-

"I didnae even think! What am I tae call ye? I jus' said Miss Claire wi'out askin', and-"

"Miss Claire is more than fine," I whisper back, "The way you say it, it makes me sound young, even pretty."

Annie stops with her mouth open, and looks me up and down, as though seeing me for the first time.

"And now you're going to be sentimental," I pat her hand, "Don't, my dear. Just take a little pressure off Mrs. Fitz, and show me where to stand and tell me what I'm supposed to say and do, there's a good girl."

By the time she's done explaining that I'm to stand until Himself sits, and I'm a High Table guest so Dougal has the honour of seating me, and he'll probably do so directly to Colum's left, but only after I've been formally introduced, the room has filled even further, and warmed with the presence of so many Human bodies. The low hum of conversation is more comforting and welcoming than I expected. No one speaks to me, but I don't feel excluded, only new, and somewhat small. Those things don't bother me. If they had forced a welcome on me, all glitter and hand gestures and empty smiles, then I would know I wasn't welcome here. But as things are, I think we might get on reasonably well, as soon as we get to know each other a little.

Slowly, the milling, murmuring crowd of people fall quiet, and arrange themselves in two long rows down the opposite walls of the room. I'm at the head of one, a short, bearded man I don't know is at the head of the other.

Quickly, I scan down the two long lines of us. Annie left me as soon as she had finished explaining, so I don't see anyone I know. Not Angus, not Murtagh, not Rupert, not Mrs. Fitz.

And not Jamie. . .

A gong sounds, and a man in livery stands, very upright and proper, in the center of the room above the High Table. The surrounding silence deepens as he intones -

"Be on your feet, for Himself, Colum ban Campbell Mackenzie, Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie, Laird of Leoch."

Then he walks off to the side, and another liveried man opens the big door in the middle of the back wall of the dining room.

A shape slowly materializes from the other side of the door. A man. Of moderate height, but majestic bearing, his long, dark, silver-grey hair pulled back, his classically cut blue waistcoat smooth across his well-developed shoulders and chest. His expression is Dignity, with the capital clearly written in his very eyes. He walks with a slow, precise pace - too slow and precise.

It is only then that I notice his legs. He is wearing a sort of shiny steel exoskeleton over his trousers, with leg plates and boots and motors at the joints.

I am reminded of old legends of power suits, and weapons blessed by the gods, of heroes that could fly and use magic, and saved the world. . .

A few steps into the room, he stops, and taps some unseen buttons.

With a hiss and several clanks, the exoskeleton opens, and he steps free of the device. His pace is even slower now, but far less precise. He rolls painfully from foot to foot, and no wonder, for the lower half of each of his legs is nearly as thin as a broomstick, and bent out of shape so severely, the wonder is that he can walk unaided at all.

So this is Colum Mackenzie. The Laird. Dougal's brother.

And Dougal himself did enter with his brother, along with a few others, but I don't notice them until Colum has seated himself at the center of the High Table. Then Dougal comes forward, leading a woman, who he seats at Colum's right hand. Then he seats two younger men down the table to her right.

Then he turns to me. He takes my arm lightly, knowing I'm moving slowly with the crutch. As we pass between Colum's mechanized leg-braces and the back of Colum's chair, I avoid looking at him, knowing all I'd be able to say to him at the moment is a screaming demand why he didn't tell me what an "audience with the Laird" actually meant, and knowing equally well why he didn't tell me.

It's to throw me off, to make my own injury seem petty, to make me feel insignificant and weak, and to shame me into answering questions more easily.

Well, the joke's on him.

I _always_ feel petty, weak and insignificant. Dougal so deliberately pointing it out to me, and so forcefully drawing a line under it, only make me feel like both he and Colum are my _equals,_ not my superiors.

A true superior doesn't need to point out just how much better they are than you. And they certainly don't need to belabour the point like this.

Dougal releases my elbow, and bows towards his brother. Colum turns to us.

"My Lord MacKenzie," says Dougal, formally, "I have the honour to present to you our official clan Guest-" He gestures at me to speak.

I balance on my good foot, and give an undeniably awkward bow, but I put out my hand with all good will.

"Claire Beauchamp, sir."

He takes my hand, briefly but firmly, "Welcome, Claire Beauchamp. Are ye Married or Miss?"

His voice isn't unlike Dougal's, deep and full, but it is coloured with confidence and pride where Dougal's is devious and deliberately smooth.

"I am a widow. But I prefer Mrs."

He courteously inclines his head, and gestures to the woman beside him, "My wife, Letitia."

I bow awkwardly again. She acknowledges me with a prim, cold expression.

"Please ye tae be seated, Mrs. Beauchamp," says Colum.

Dougal seats me, then sits down to my left. As soon as he does so, the rest of the room erupts with motion and resumed conversations, as everyone else finally gets to sit down.

My place setting is magnificent - all gold leaf and ivory ceramic and clear crystal glimmering in the candlelight. I bless my Central Township upbringing, for if I've never seen a table setting quite as elaborate as this, I at least know what each utensil is _for_. A small plate with bread and butter sits next to my right hand, waiting patiently for the soup. As must I.

My seat is comfortable, and no one is interrogating me yet, so I carefully scan the room again. I notice many things - interesting details I didn't notice at first sight. But, chiefly, I notice again that Jamie is nowhere to be seen.

I decide it can't hurt to ask about him. It would be an excellent question to use to test the waters, anyway. I'm just turning to Colum, when he forestalls me with his own question.

"I may take it ye've nevar seen so advanced a case of Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome before?"

I blink. "No. I. . . don't even know what that is."

"It's the condition of my legs. I saw ye preparing to ask. And ye _may_ ask - I'm no' ashamed nor shy of it."

No. He's _proud_ of it. That is abundantly clear.

"Oh," I say, uncertain what response he wants, "Excellent. But that wasn't what I was going to ask about."

Colum looks at me indulgently, as if to a child caught in the clumsiest of lies, "Were ye no'? Then what was on yer mind when I made my entrance?"

I smile. That, at least, I can tell him, without lying at all. "Only the obvious, I'm afraid," I gesture behind us, "I was interested in those," I indicate the mechanized braces, "Beautiful, custom device. I imagine you have a devil of a time keeping young boys away from them."

"Aye, that we do," He smirks a little, "But why do ye think so?"

"It's quite obvious. To you they are a necessity. Grudgingly accepted, openly embraced, neutrally acknowledged as a useful piece of technology - no matter how you might personally consider them - they are just something to make your life more functional. But to a growing boy?" I glance back at the shiny exoskeletal legs again, "You must seem like a superhero."

The soup arrives, and Colum looks down at it, a somewhat amused twinkle in the corner of his eye. I expect him to begin questioning me now, but he only turns his attention entirely onto his soup.

And it's worth attention - cream of potato with caramelized carrots and green peas, and tiny, feather-light curls of what I assume is cheese, sprinkled on top.

One of the men in livery comes through, and fills our wine glasses with a pale yellow, fruity smelling liquid. I take a sip, and know it's a moscato. Lightly fizzy, much less than a champagne, but sweeter, all effervescent high notes. A perfect accompaniment to the thick, rich soup.

I learned so _many_ things as the only child of one of the leading Inter-City trade merchants on Skycity 15. But I had thought I'd forgotten nearly all of it. . .

It seems I remember more than I ever realized.

Speaking of children, and growing boys, the same little seven or eight year old scamp I saw greet Dougal this morning runs up behind Colum now.

"Papa, papa! Tammas and Lindsey say the new horses'll be here before the gathering, and I wanted too ask ye if-"

"Haud yer wheesht! Where are yer manners, Hamish?" Colum gestures at me, "Say hello to our guest."

The boy turns and regards me, with huge eyes and an uncertain expression.

"Hello," he says, reluctantly.

I smile, recognizing the same restrained formality of tone that I always used as a child whenever I was forced to meet a new adult.

"Hello again," I say, "I saw you greet your uncle this morning." I glance back at Dougal, then back to the boy, "Or, rather, him greet you," I pat his shoulder, gently, "Don't worry though, I once had an uncle who loved me like he was my third parent too. I know what it can be like."

He blushes, and bites his lip, small and adorably male when he realizes I saw him get kissed, "I. . . uh. . ."

Colum intervenes, "Go say goodnight to yer mother, Hamish."

He goes over and kisses Letitia briefly, and then disappears back the way he came.

When he is gone, Colum looks at me, a much harder expression on his face than I was expecting.

"Your son is luckier than he realizes," I say, baffled.

"Aye. Arenae we all?" says Colum, shortly, and turns back to his soup.

I must have said something wrong, but I am completely at a loss as to what.

And still, the questioning does not begin. Testing the waters is even more important now. Let's see how much Dougal has had time - or has chosen! - to tell his brother about events concerning me. I quickly scan the room again, making absolutely sure that Jamie is not here.

"Is Mr. MacTavish not joining us?"

"Nae," says Colum, sparing his attention from the soup and looking straight at me, "And what is Mr. MacTavish to ye?"

I smile, and make my voice sweet, "He's one of my rescuers, but that's _hard_ ly the point. You see, after I've been _buried_ with a man, I usually find I'm somewhat interested in his. . ." I time my next word so that Dougal is taking a sip of wine, "Resur _rection_."

I don't quite score a spit-take, but he does splutter a bit into the glass.

Colum looks past me, questioning Dougal with his eyes.

"Aye, she alerted us to a unannounced checkpoint at Cocknammon, so I told wee Jamie to take her inta hiding with him," says Dougal, half-dismissively, "I thought she'd earned that much."

That much, and no more, is the clear unspoken implication.

Colum nods, neither in approval or censure, merely in acknowledgement.

"But now ye're an official guest of Clan MacKenzie, Mrs. Beauchamp," adds Dougal, suavely, "Ye must give us the honour of yer undivided attention this first evening."

By which he has made himself quite clear. I _am_ going to be questioned. Thoroughly. Therefore, I am denied any allies. I am denied even any familiar faces, save Dougal's own. I must face whatever is asked of me tonight, and I must face it alone, unaided.

And what is more, Colum might be the Laird, and as such, will probably end up doing the majority of the questioning, but it is _Dougal_ who is directing this inquisition, not his brother.

There's a game schoolchildren play on Skycity 15. We call it rounders, although I don't know if that is the official name or not. I don't know if it has an official name. It is a blend of word association and memory retention that requires you to be quick, clever, and ruthless. The first player chooses a word, like "fire". The second player must think of a related word, then repeat them both, "fire, hose". The third player must think of a word related to the second, but not the first, then repeat all three, "fire, hose, pipe". It goes on like that, bouncing back and forth like a ball of ever increasing weight, all round the circle of players. And not only must you remember the order of words and repeat them correctly, you must be clever about your additions. If more than one other player objects to your choice of word, you are out of the round. If you do not remember, or even stumble over the order of the words, you are out of the round. And when there are only two players left, all of the "out" players may point out the mistakes or object to the additions of the final two contestants. Each player must pay close attention to every other for the entire game, not only to call out mistakes, but to remember every detail when your own turn comes.

It is a cutthroat game, where spectacular wins are rare, and often, everyone loses.

I've loved rounders ever since I was old enough to speak.

I experience a certain excitement for the upcoming discussion that I did not expect. These men are not evil - they aren't even my confirmed enemies. They are, in fact, my equals, meeting me in fair combat, even if circumstances have given them a home-ground advantage. My Central Township blood rises at their open challenge, and the House of Beauchamp prepares to defend its honour.

The empty soup plates are cleared, and mushroom tarts arrive.

"Cook made yours 'specially," says Dougal, appropriating the bottle of red wine from the man in livery who was about to fill our glasses, "From the ones you gathered outside Inverness." He fills my glass with a dark ruby Bordeaux - Pinot Noir by the smell. The man in livery acquires another bottle, and fills everyone else's glass.

"Oh? I'm glad they didn't go to waste, then," I say, smiling at Dougal. I know he knows about my search for information on poisonous mushrooms, but he also knows I'm not stupid. This is just his first volley, and as such, is ridiculously easy for me to dodge. I cut into the lovely pastry, and begin to eat as though everything is entirely normal.

Which isn't _quite_ true. The tart is impressively delicious, much more so than any made with the mushrooms we grow on Skycity 15 could ever be. As if I needed more proof that Skycity life is woefully lacking in so many areas of Human existence. . .

"So. . . Where are ye from, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Colum.

Here we go. . .

"Oxford," I say, as though I find it the most uninteresting place imaginable. I take another bite of my tart, and a sip of wine, and wait for the onslaught I know is coming.

"And what would an Englishwoman be doing picking mushrooms in the hills around Inverness, I wonder?" says Colum, drily.

"Well, you might call it camping, I suppose." I look down at the sliced mushrooms on my plate, and remember how purely happy I was to find them. "But, really, I was trying to get away from Oxford."

"Outside Inverness is certainly a place where ye can do that. But not, perhaps, the most common place for a fine lady like yerself to do so."

"I believe you," I say, "But it wasn't exactly my plan, either. I just rented a car, and. . . well. . . drove. Inverness is where I ended up." I shrug, uncomfortably but not guiltily. It's close enough to the truth, really.

"Are yer parents from Oxford, then?"

"Yes," I say, the distant sadness that usually accompanies my mentioning them making it clear there there is no "are", only "were", "From around there."

"They had no French connections?"

"No, not that I'm aware of," I say, before I remember that my parents are now named Moriston. Luckily, I don't think that's French. . . "No more than any English family after 1066, of course."

"Of course. And yer husband?"

I sip my wine contemplatively as the remnants of the tarts are removed, and a huge platter of roasted potatoes, cooked greens, and tiny joints of meat is placed in front of Colum. A stack of six plates is set next to him, and he proceeds to serve up the main course. Dougal refills my glass with the Pinot Noir the second I've emptied it. He's all too obviously trying to get me tipsy.

But anyone who has regularly drunk South-1 farm labourers under the table on 'tiller vodka, isn't going to be felled by a few glasses of high-class wine.

Not that Dougal has any way of knowing that. . .

"Frank? Perhaps he did have some French ancestors," I say, "He must have, I suppose. It was never something he was interested in."

A liveried man takes each plate as Colum fills them, and delivers them to the rest us sitting at the table. When my plate arrives, Colum says, "Cook's specialty this time of year - roasted rabbit."

"It smells delicious," I say. I've never had rabbit - I barely know what a rabbit _is_ \- but it's easy to feign mild eagerness, because it really does smell very good. The potatoes are so steaming hot that after I cut them open, the butter I put on them melts in seconds, and pools around the greens like a sweet, golden moat. My first bite of the meat is rich, strong, and slightly metallic, but after a second bite it tastes like a mix of the chicken I'm used to, and the incredibly filling stew I had for lunch.

More than acceptable, and quite worthy of the term "specialty".

"So ye're just from Oxford, then, are ye?" says Colum, finally filling his own plate, and getting back to the issue at hand - interrogating me.

"So far as I know," I say.

"Well, ye dinnae _sound_ like ye're from Oxford at all. Ye sound American."

Now, _that's_ an angle I didn't expect. . .

"Do I? Well, I can't help that."

Dougal breaks in, "Ye ever been to America?"

Ah yes. I understand now. I should have understood from the first. A bit of vindictiveness rises up in me. Dougal will pay for that.

"I've been to Canada, a few times. And once. . ." I carefully time my next word again, "Boston."

This time Dougal almost chokes on a mouthful of rabbit, but he recovers quickly.

"And what did ye do on this one trip tae Boston?" says Colum, not acknowledging his brother's mild coughing fit, though I'm certain he noticed it.

"It was a school trip when I was fifteen. We toured MIT."

And indeed, this is true. My one trip to New Boston, that's what we did.

"And is that all ye d-"

He breaks off suddenly, and pours himself a water tumbler full of wine. He drinks down half of it with an intense urgency that's disturbing to see in a man so dignified. I turn back to my plate, giving him that much privacy, at least.

"Sometimes the pain takes him in the middle of a word," says Dougal, soberly, "All will be well in a minute or two."

Colum has questioned me hard, but he hasn't been cruel. I hate knowing he is in such constant suffering.

"Is there nothing that can be done?"

"Aye, there's a CRISpRs treatment now, but my brother doesnae believe in it."

CRISpRs! I know them well. They figured in over half my job in Lower South-5. So they have them here! It's a relief to find something technical that I can talk openly about.

"But why not? CRISpRs are so easy, so reliable! Schoolchildren can learn the isolation and purification processes, and, granted, you do need someone who knows what they're doing to administer the serums effectively, but-"

Dougal's eyes sharpen, "And you're offering, I suppose?"

"No! That's what I'm trying to tell you. On my own I've only ever administered CRISpRs serum to plants, though I have assisted a specialist while he administered some to chickens. I wouldn't know the first thing about how and when and where to give them to a Human, but the point is, I bet someone could-"

"Nae!" says Colum, his peremptory tone almost entirely concealing the waver of pain in his voice, "T'was meddling of that sort put me here, I wilnae believe the same meddling can get me oot! Is tha' clear?"

"Oh, so you'll use the very latest in technology, but won't even _look_ at modern medicine? I know Scots are supposed to be rebels, but isn't that taking things a bit far?"

It was a mistake to say that. The air gets very cold around the High Table. I'm not quite sure why, either. But at least it was a clean mistake, something any ignorant Sassenach might have said, and not related to my knowledge of the future.

I expect them to press the attack, but, to my complete surprise, _Dougal_ comes to my rescue.

"Our mother had an experimental set of broad-spectrum inoculations while she was carryin' my brother, lassie," he says, significantly, "And none while she was carryin' me. Can ye blame us if the difference between technology and medicine strikes us as a bit stark?"

I sigh. "No, I can't." I look Colum directly in the eyes, "I'm sorry."

He nods, blankly.

"Now would you mind telling me why it's so important where I'm from? Oxford or France or Boston or freaking Ulaanbaatar - what does it matter?"

"Well, it doesnae, strictly," says Dougal, "But. . . blood tells."

I think of my parents, and the bombing of Central Township.

Home. . .

"Yes. Yes it does. But so does experience."

Dougal nods, "Aye. Ye're right, lassie." A devious look comes into his eyes, "An' what does yer experience tell ye aboot stayin' heer wi' us?"

Dougal's accent only deepens like that when he intends it to. He couldn't be sending a clearer message. _He_ is Scottish. And where I'm from matters to _him_. No matter what I say next, he will never stop trying to figure me out.

Well, at least that last part is mutual. . .

"I figure now is a good time ask for access to your library. I'm going to need a good encyclopedia, at least."

After this afternoon, there's no way they're letting me have any sort of info-screen ever again. . .

"She wants a library!" laughs Colum, harshly, "Do I haveta tell ye tae stay out of the west wing?"

I recognize this as a reference to a famous adaptation of the de Villeneuve classic story of Beauty and the Beast. In this scenario, I wonder which one of us is the Beast. . . I fall back on my Skycity propensity to be obtusely literal.

"The guest rooms are _in_ the west wing."

"A woman with a sense of direction! How rare!" Colum sneers.

"In fact, that's a myth," I say, as though he had said it in good faith, "Women with highly developed spatial awarenesses are quite common. Almost as common as men with no sense of humour."

"Och, please, and what is a sense of humour, exactly?" says Dougal, smoothly intervening.

"Oh, that's easy. A sense of humour is a sense of the fitness of things. Of the rules of life, if you will. A sense of. . . right and wrong, of justice and equity so ingrained, so essential to a person, that they can sometimes bend those rules, and yet, never break them. _That_ is a sense of humour."

A chill tightens the air around us again. And again, I'm not sure why.

Once more, it is Dougal who breaks the tension, saying softly - "Then the miracle is that ye know _anyone_ with a sense of humour, Mrs. Beauchamp."

"Isn't it?" I say, broadly.

Colum changes the subject.

"What is it ye do, Mrs. Beauchamp? I mean when ye arenae repairing errant plasma engines, that is."

"Well, I'm a botanist by training, but I'm a farm technician by trade."

"Oh, aye? And what is a farm technician?"

"Well, at various times it means you're a chemist, a geneticist, a bio-engineer, a mineralogist, a botanist of course, and a mechanic, programmer, field labourer. . . and occasionally a surrogate mother to baby chickens. Whatever it takes to make a farm a productive place."

"It sounds remarkably similar to a farm manager," says Dougal.

I nod, "I have worked with many farm managers, and the jobs are not unalike. However, a tech is almost always working hands on with the produce. A manager is almost always working hands on with the people."

"And ye prefer produce to people?"

I pause a long time. Long enough for things to get very uncomfortable around the High Table again.

"I have found. . ." I say finally, swallowing hard, "That it is generally less painful when plants die."

I finish my glass of wine, and Dougal fills it up again. I kick back the replenished glass in one long draught, knowing it's probably unwise to do so, but needing, like Colum, _something_ to dull the pain. I think Dougal sees something sincere in this, because he refrains from filling my glass up again.

He's either given up trying to get me drunk, or has realized I don't _need_ to be drunk to say stupid things.

"And what do _you_ do?" I ask Dougal, "Besides drive around in a Rover with a state-of-the-art plasma engine, of course."

"Dougal is my War Chief," says Colum, as though that explains everything. And perhaps it does, but not to me.

Fortunately, I am spared asking what he means, as Dougal again speaks up, and explains, "You may as well ask me now - what a War Chief is doing on the campaign trail - everyone does. There's not many in this family think I have what it takes to be a politician."

Why does he keep smoothing things over? Every time Colum begins to gain the advantage over me, Dougal cuts in, and gives me just enough information so that I can rally. Every time the tide shows signs of turning against me, he diverts the tension - and then turns onto the attack again himself. I've never seen a man blow hot and cold like this before. Does he want to be my ally, or not?

I have a very strange impression that by the end of the night, he's either going to murder me, or ask me to marry him. Or both.

"Politics instead of war? Well, I'd say you just graduated to the truly difficult battles."

There is barely a semblance of Colum being in charge of my questioning any longer, his attention divided mostly between his wine and his wife. I assume his pain must be bad at the moment, and let him retire gracefully from our battlefield. But I don't kid myself. He's still listening, more sharply now than ever.

"Aye, ye arenae far wrong with that, lassie," says Dougal, smiling a tight little wolfish grin, "To be honest, it's a bit of a shock ye arenae somewhat in the same line yerself."

"Politics?" I scoff, "That would mean having some kind of positive emotional attachment to the idea of being English. Which is really the last reaction I have to that idea."

We are served a glistening peachy-pink blancmange, and Colum is handed a bottle of port, or so I assume by the colour.

"Ye. . . dinnae consider yerself English?" Dougal asks, a faint note of incredulity bleeding though his studied smoothness.

"Well, I can hardly be anything else, since I was born there. But, then again, being born in a stable doesn't make you a horse."

It truly is amazing, how many seldom-used words and phrases I'm remembering tonight. The blancmange tastes of almonds, and plums, and some other fruits I don't recognize, but it is quite good. I have always hated fortified wines, so when Colum passes me the port, I hand it straight to Dougal.

"Are ye no' a patriot, then?"

"I don't think so. Not that kind, anyway."

"Then what kind can ye be? Ye were loyal to yer husband, or so I quite naturally assume - is loyalty to a country so far removed from that?" He pours himself a measure of port, and we settle down to the evening's most improbable discussion yet.

"It is to me. That would mean being loyal to a government. I find there's quite a difference between a government and an individual, don't you? An individual you can get close to, come to know, and eventually come to trust. Even when one or the other of you makes mistakes, and you will, there's always that connection between you. I find such a connection very difficult to form, or maintain, with mere groups of officials."

"But, lassie, have ye no sense of. . . well. . . honour?"

"Oh, that? Yes, I think I do. But patriotism. . . that's the kind of honour one wears, like a sword, or chain mail. Such a thing can be good, and useful - even beautiful, in its way. But the drawback is, others can take it from you. Change its colour, change its shape. Even use it against you. In a world where there are those without honour, patriotism. . . Well, in my opinion it's the most dangerous weapon ever created. No less so to the one who wields it than any it might be used against."

"If that is so - and I don't say it is, mind - then what is a man to do?"

"He must put off wearing his honour, and instead, become it. To the marrow bone, be must _be_ what he believes. And not just men. All of us. No one can take your spirit, unless you hand it over."

"Ah. Aye. But spirits can be broken, lass," says Dougal.

Long forgotten words from some ancient, only half-learned liturgy rise up in my mind.

"A broken spirit is a sacrifice unto God, holy and precious."

Dougal puts down his wineglass, and stares at me, unblinking, for far longer than I find acceptable.

I finish my blancmange in silence.

There are a few more perfunctory questions after that, and one or two more jokes at my expense, but it's clear the inquisition is over. For the time being, anyway. Soon after the port has gone around, I rise, take up my crutch, and make my awkward bow to Colum again, saying, truthfully, that I am tired, and must be off to bed. He acknowledges me, barely, with a nod and raised pointer finger.

At the side door I entered from, I look back, and see Dougal is staring at me again, his face as bland as usual, giving very little away, but even from here I can see the look of utter confusion in his eyes.

I don't know if I won this round, but if Dougal Mackenzie _also_ doesn't know? Well, then I'd call that a success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7iMfjA95u8


	22. Principally Uncertain

I wake up with my mind in a tangle. For some reason, I'm having trouble sorting one sense from another, and what is memory from what is only an imagined dream. I'm comfortable, so I start there. With my eyes still closed, I'm not certain if I'm in the big four-poster on Cold Island 12, in a pile of soft animal skins in a castle somewhere with Jamie, in the narrow double I share with Frank in North-3, or in the soft truckle bed in my parents' house in Central.

When is it? Who am I?

Even after I open my eyes, the world remains unclear for a disturbingly long minute. In the grey light of yet another dawn, I stare at a small couch and low table, without really recognizing them.

Where am I? What's going on?

Then, the past month, the past week, the past two days, and yesterday night in particular crash into my conscious brain, and I groan, as though I have a hangover.

My head doesn't hurt, but I feel like it should. When it comes to impossible and crazy things happening to me, I've been on quite a bender.

And when it comes to _doing_ impossible and crazy things, since when am I the daring, fly-by-night, seat-of-the-pants dragonslayer? I'm a farm tech from North-3, who spends her days churning out ration packs for the Planetary Fleet's armed forces. My husband is a sanitation worker and the foreman of Decon Team 7. It's 2273. That's who I am. That's what my life is. That's _when_ my life is. Common as rust, normal, completely un-extraordinary.

Isn't it?

What the _hell_ am I doing playing sudden-death rounders with Scottish clan Lairds in 2078? At the moment it's hard to process that even this isn't the half of it, nor the strangest half, either. My husband is dead, my home with him was bombed, my old home in Central was bombed, and I am living on the Rim, just barely making do with power-salvage and dealing on the black market. It's 2279. Everything I am is gone, and no matter how hard I fight to survive a little while longer, I'm already half-dead, just waiting to actually die.

Aren't I?

And what if all that is a dream? What if, in reality, I am a doctor, living in a castle in the eighteenth century, married to Jamie and carrying his child? What if we are blissfully happy, and safe, and secure, with nothing but the ordinary worries and troubles of a couple intensely in love? What if Jamie is the Laird, and I, his Lady?

Or, maybe that was the dream?

Can all that possibly exist _only_ while I'm drifting in a rose-tinted past that never existed? _Some_ part of it must be real. It feels too certain, too solid, to be a mere dream.

It can't be real.

But, is it?

This and all the rest of my real and imagined pasts jumble and tumble though my brain in a random, incoherent soup.

Cold Island 12. Craigh na Dun. Druids. The wine dark sea. Scottish Highlands. Time travel. Farms of trees. The Battle of Culloden. Rowanberry jam. Scry. The signs of the past. The Witches dance under the moon. Two husbands and maybe three. Human sacrifice. Brimstone moths. Focus. Beauty. Truth is in the hand. Venus. Names in the rust. Fire. Power. Freedom. The Devil's Eye. Mist and stones and Fate. Alisanders. Alexanders. The power of hope. . .

I don't know if there are words for the wavering, floating chaos in my mind.

Surreal?

No. Doesn't go far enough.

 _Hyper_ -surreal.

In a waking dream, the lines of light come back to me, from the fire dishes and the lightning, and the music of flutes and drums. Stars swirl before my eyes, but one singular bright one calls my name with the clang of a bell. A clean, deep scent, sweet with passion, turns the world dark blue. The stones are as tall as trees, and the rivers flow with red berries, tart and crisp and good. The golden wings of fairies and dragons sweep the wind into smooth, rushing gusts that catch me up over the sea.

Over the sea. . .

Over the sea, in the sky.

Islands and trees. . .

All that was me is gone.

Hands reaching towards me. From the past. From the future. The past is the future, the future is the past. Time is Chaos, the Mother of Time, and Fate lends a hand. A portal to another world. No more than a door. Eyes I do not know. Faces I cannot forget. A bolt of lightning to the heart. Red. Red hair, red flames, red blood. Black and amber and blue. Truth does not need to be believed in to be true.

The music sounds and the stones ring and sing, and call, and call, and call. . .

Words and images pound endlessly in my head, and I don't know what is happening and what isn't. It's too much, everything, all at once, like I am a conduit, a live wire, a fusion coil and my flow regulator is broken.

I fall back to sleep, out of pure self-defense.


	23. Dogs And Cats

When I wake up again, rain is pattering against my window, and all the chaos is gone from my mind. Whatever that thunderous place between waking and sleeping was, it appears to have left me now.

Thank all the gods that may or may not exist.

It is November 3rd, 2078, and last night I had supper with Colum Mackenzie, Laird of Leoch. He and his brother interrogated me, and I was snippy and snarky and probably totally insufferable in return.

No doubt I've messed everything up, but, that's what happened - I can't change it.

I'll deal with it.

My stomach rumbles. The little timepiece over the desk says 11 A.M. I haven't slept this late since I was sick with the 'flu. I'm far, far too late for breakfast, certainly - and if I don't kick into gear right quick, I'm going to miss lunch too.

Also, there are _several_ conversations I need to have with Mrs. Fitz. . .

It's difficult to jump out of bed when you have a sore ankle, but somehow, I manage it. I speed through my visit to the toilet, then grab the first casual set of clothes from the pile, and hurriedly dress underneath my long flannel nightgown. I undressed underneath it last night too. I might be in a rush, but I was gone from this room long enough last night for Angus and Rupert to have placed a dozen cameras each in here, and after the challenge I issued to them yesterday, I'm not taking any chances. I don't have time to search for said cameras either. I drag a brush though the wild, untamable mess my hair always becomes when it rains, and quickly give up. The clothes Annie gave me included a headscarf or two. I pull out a silky dark blue square of cloth, and tie it over my hair.

It will have to do.

I only have to ask two of the bustling strangers in the halls in order to track down where Mrs. Fitz should be. They're both cheerful and helpful, friendly and genuine - showing no signs that they know I plagued and insulted the Laird and his War Chief last night. They _must_ know, but they don't show it. I'm not quite sure what this means. Do they not care that I'm a screwup? Are they _glad_ that I'm a screwup?

Either way, maybe - perhaps - I haven't messed things up _entirely_.

And maybe the residents of Castle Leoch are just instinctively more helpful to a person limping around on a crutch than the Peace Agents I've met. Which, granted, isn't difficult. . .

I make my way past the kitchens to a small side room that overlooks the gardens. It's the combination office, sitting room, and "mud room" in which, I am assured, Mrs. Fitz spends most of her brief free moments. She isn't here now. No matter. I'm here now, and she soon will be. I sit down to wait.

The couch and chairs are the usual soft upholstered style I've come to expect. The desk is made of wood - as most furniture seems to be here. One whole wall is a row of windows looking out over the grey, dark rows of the garden. Plot after plot of rich soil, well turned and snug for the coming winter. No doubt it is a flourishing enough place in summer, but there are only a few straggling patches of green now. Idly, I wonder if they grow alisanders. . . There is a green-painted door that lets out into the garden, and if it were not so wet and dreary a day, I would long to go exploring. Just beyond the door is an archway into a smaller, rougher room, with a tiled floor, heavy benches, and two plumbed-in washing vats next to a large cupboard containing dozens of empty vases. I assume this is the "mud room" - though there is a remarkable lack of mud. In the main room there are three full bookshelves, several potted plants, four hanging lamps, a fancy area rug, and cushions and draped blankets everywhere.

Taken as a whole, there are more luxuries in these two rooms than any two in any Skycity could possibly offer.

One corner of the main room has a plumbed in handwashing basin next to a little freestanding cooking pad. The cupboard next to them has a glass door, and I can clearly make out a teapot, teacups, and at least two dozen boxes of tea, sugar, and - wonder of wonders! - cocoa.

It's been 20 years since I've had chocolate. When I was little, Father used to trade somewhat regularly with the Southern Pacific Fleet - New Guayaquil being one of only three Skycities in the world at the time that cultivated a hybrid cocoa plant. One season we had a particularly good sugar beet crop, and traded almost all of it for three Export ships full of nothing but cocoa butter, cocoa powder, processed but unsweetened bars, roasted cocoa seed pieces, and several crates of fertile seeds and seedlings, to go into GenTech's seed library and labs. Father was paid in sacks of the chocolate powder, and five whole ten-kilo boxes of the solid processed bars. Most of it he sold, but mother kept enough that for ten years of special occasions, we had hot chocolate, chocolate cake, chocolate sauce, and once - most glorious of memories! - chocolate truffles.

By the time we ran out, Father was trading more with the Asian Fleet, which means I've also tried coconut ice cream, pickled bamboo shoots, and rice wine - but nothing ever compared to chocolate, in my opinion.

Yet even a clearly labeled tin of cocoa isn't the most luxurious thing in this room.

Across from the couch where I've settled myself, there is an enormous fireplace. It's over one and a half meters square, and almost one deep, with five or six logs in a flaming pile in the center. They are held up by a fancy wrought-iron basket I don't know the name for, and a whole heap of brilliant coals are glowing around the base of it.

I know what a fireplace is because on Skycity 15, most of our electric stoves and personal space heaters have a setting that will display a picture of a log fire while active. The fancier models have pictures that move, and some even project sound effects.

The real thing is, as I am so quickly and repeatedly learning, entirely different.

This fireplace is _actually burning wood_. One might as well make polysteel rope out of water tokens. Why take such a precious resource, and _consume_ it just to make a cheap, utilitarian product?

Although. . .

I do admit, the warmth from the blaze is friendlier, softer, and somehow, _warmer_ than that of a space heater. And those flames. . .

There is a sly, crinkling, almost insidious hissing from the fireplace, and a mesmerizing flickering so _real_ that I cannot look away. There is a shape, a motion, a _presence_ to this sort of fire that no electric contraption could possibly replicate.

I stare deeply into its reddish-orange dancing, thoroughly charmed.

It isn't until one of them moves that I realize the two fuzzy grey lumps sitting in front of the fireplace aren't stray cushions, or some sort of large furry house-slippers.

No. These things are _alive_.

Animals.

I don't know what kind of animals, but they do seem somewhat familiar. . .

The first one is a very dark grey, mottled all over with a muddy looking brown. After a long, sinuous stretch, he flips his head - something about both motions are so obviously male I don't question the "he" - and walks somewhat stiffly over to my couch. He proceeds to sniff up and down the cushions supporting my legs. The creature is ugly - with notched and shredded ears, a short, scrubby tail, and grizzled whitish fur around its nose and mouth - not to mention disfiguring scars all over its head and face, culminating with a dark fold of furred skin completely obscuring an obviously empty eye socket.

And yet. . . He has an air about him that renders him so polite and professional, I almost want someone to introduce us.

He finishes sniffing, and with a sudden coiled spring, is on the couch with me. Before I can react, he has curled himself into a ball, and laid down on my shins. A deep, rhythmic vibration starts in his tiny, furry chest. His one eye closes, and he goes back to sleep.

I haven't recovered from the shock of this when the other cat - cats! I knew I recognized them! - uncoils from his place and comes over to me.

This one is a paler, cleaner grey, with faint stripes of black across his flanks. His pace is smoother, more elegant than the first. Something about him also says he is male, but of a very different sort than his companion. The first one's eye was black - this one's eyes are golden yellow. The first one made sure of his welcome - this one looks at me with such condescension I'm certain he would snub the Queen herself. He flicks his ears, and I wonder what plane of reality this majestic fairy thing came from. . .

He makes his way slowly over to me, his attitude not at all businesslike, and only slightly formal. The look in his eyes is less investigative and more. . . more. . .

Seductive?

Yes. He's _prowling_.

I grin as I watch him, recognizing an almost Human soul inside this animated scrap of grey fur.

He approaches my couch without any of the first one's hesitation, and leaps onto it without so much as a by-your-leave. He stalks along the couch's arm behind my back, his long, soft tail flicking me smartly on the ear as he passes. Then he jumps over my shoulder and lands with a thud on my chest - right next to my bruised ribs. I huff in surprise, but he is unimpressed, sitting down on my thighs and beginning to wash his face with a paw.

I watch the proceeding, transfixed, confused, and quite bewildered.

Cats. . .

Knowing what they are does not in any way help me to know what to do with them. They're sitting on me. I can't move from this couch until they do. I try not to panic. They are small creatures - I can move them if I have to. And yet, I somehow know that if I did, it would offend them, and I am singularly reluctant to do such a thing to this pair of gentlemen.

Certainly more reluctant than I was to offend the pair of gentlemen I ate supper with last night. . .

"Ah, ye'er heer, dearie!" says Mrs. Fitz, bustling in, "Maryanna said ye were waitin' fer me, and heer ye are!"

"Yes - sorry to intrude! - I. . . slept in, I'm afraid. It's been a long couple of days! So I missed breakfast, and I _did_ want to talk with you. . ."

"Say nae moor, dearie!" She comes up to the couch and tickles the lighter grey cat under the chin - much to his indignation. "Ye mus' be right hungry. I'll bring some lunch in heer fer us, dinnae fash! Th'moor the merrier!" She stumps busily out again.

I shake my head. There's no stopping Mrs. Fitz.

And she saw the cats sitting on me and didn't comment! Is this sort of thing _normal_ for cats? If it is, how does anyone ever get anything done here? There must be a way to. . .

A loud series of staccato animal sounds comes from outside, and I see a tall figure in a wet raincoat walking up the garden path. A door into the mud room opens, the sharp sounds continuing. The tall figure and a wet, furry animal, larger than the cats, burst into the mud room, instantly spreading the tiles with spatters of dirt and rainwater.

All at once, I understand why it is called a mud room.

The furry animal continues - barking? Is that the name of that noise? - and jumping up against the tall figure as he shakes the water from himself.

"Down, Laoghaire!" says Jamie's voice, "Can ye no' be still?"

The animal barks again, and shakes itself too. Jamie takes off his raincoat and galoshes, then grabs a large square of grey cloth - a towel, Mrs. Graham called it - from a pile of them stacked underneath one of the washing vats. The dog - dog! That is a dog! To the life, just like the pictures I've seen! But unequivocally louder. . . The dog tries to jump and lick all over Jamie, but he pushes it away gently, starting to rub it down with the towel.

"Aye, I noo," he says, his accent deepening into a soothing purr, "Ye canna be still, but _try_ et, foor me, will ye, pet?"

The dog barks once more, then whines, and licks his hand as he finishes with the towel. "Aye, tha's my girl, now come and sit ye by the fire an-" Jamie finally turns and sees me, "Sassenach!"

His face lights up in a way I am proud to have caused. "Good morning, Jamie," I smile back, all of my worries and self-doubts instantly forgotten, "Who's your friend there?"

He nudges the dog into the room, "This is Laoghaire, and she's a right silly bitch."

The word sounds shocking in this context, even though he says it fondly. What on earth does he mean by that?

I hold out a hand, in curiosity and welcome. She comes over to me and sniffs my fingers, then gives a sullen snort and goes to lay down next to the fire.

Jamie is still in the mud room, taking his time over cleaning up the smears of mud all over the tiles, "Usually taking her for a walk isnae such a messy enterprise, ye ken, but she wanted out and about so badly today, rainin' tho' it is, I couldnae tell her no."

I look over at the black and white shape by the fire, all fluffed out from his drying with the towel. "She must be very special to you," I say.

"Aye, she is. The very pick o' the litter! But she's nobbut a pup yet - and the last prize pup Mrs. Fitz is like to get out of auld Glenna."

He takes out a box, and pours some hard brown nubbin things into a bowl, and puts the bowl on the floor. At the sound, Laoghaire gets up from in front of the fire, and goes to him. Apparently, the nubbins are food, because she starts eating them. He stands and watches her.

"Glenna?"

"Aye, Laoghaire's dam. She's a wee bit long in the tooth to keep havin' pups, more's the pity. She's the best bitch Mrs. Fitz has had in over fifteen years."

"Best". . . so, "bitch" isn't an insult here? Or, is that only when talking about dogs?

"Glenna's the sweetest critter on God's earth," he continues, "and t'best mam He ever made. Near forty pups she's had, and every one a born herder. He broke the mould when He made auld Glenna, that He did." He runs a hand over Laoghaire's head, "Tha's why Leelee here is a bit on the spoiled side, ye see. Still livin' in the house at ten months, hand fed an' all - none o' Glenna's other pups had such treatment. But Leelee's like tae be the last, and Mrs. Fitz doesnae want tae give her up jus' yet. Truth is, I dinnae want tae either." He scratches behind her ears, and Laoghaire's whole back end wags in appreciation.

I know it's ridiculous to feel jealous of an animal, but, in that moment, I do. At least, it's not jealously exactly, but more a feeling of distance, and resenting it. Jamie is so close to every aspect of life here, so easy in his skin - and here am I, the fumbling and awkward, capital-O, Outlander, so out of my depth that I'm still slightly unsure if the animal I'm looking at actually _is_ a dog or not.

"Why would you have to?"

"Weel, a sheep dog isnae a house dog, ye ken. An' I'm no' a shepard. Once she's trained up, she'll be workin' all day, and no' in the stables and barn wi' me. No more friendly walks in the middle o' the day, and she'll be off tae the kennels at night! Aye, it'll be nowt but sleep and sheep for her soon enough. . ."

I know what a sheep is, though I've never seen one in person. They are the Multi-Purpose Cultivated Animal for the Southern Atlantic Fleet, just like chickens are the North Atlantic's MPCA, and pigs are the Southern Pacific's. But I had no idea sheep had a specific dog named after them. . . or were they named after the work?

I had always thought that dogs were useless animals, only surviving on Cold Islands because people liked them. That they can sometimes help us Humans care for other animals is quite a revelation to me.

Jamie picks up a chair from across the room and plunks it down next to my couch. As he sits, he notices the cats still sitting on my legs, and he greets them like people.

"Alec, ye auld cheetie! Sae this is where ye'ev been hidin' all mornin'!" He pokes the darker-furred cat in the shoulder, "I needed yer help wi' Firebrand, and here ye are, lazin' aboot, like a bum wi' nae job tae doo!"

Alec grunts, and shakes his head sleepily.

"Aye, fer shame tae bee sleepin' on t'job!"

Jamie's accent has again deepened in soft affection. He turns to the lighter grey cat.

"Et tu, Adso? Dinnae ye remember we had a date this mornin'? I was tae bring th'milk and ye were too bring yer own sweet self. And heer ye'ev stood me up foor oor wee Sassenach! Ye'ev wounded me Adso! Tae th'quick!" He holds out a hand near the cat's head, but Adso disdainfully ignores it, turning his head and washing behind his ears in scorn.

"Aye, p'rhaps I agree wi' ye," says Jamie, ingratiatingly, "Gi'en t'choice between nowt but coos an' my auld mug oot in t'barn, and the fire and Claire in heer, weel. . . ye'er right, I'd choose t'same as ye." He has brought his hand closer and closer to Adso's head while murmuring these words, and finally, Adso condescends to notice him, and pushes his face delicately against Jamie's fingers.

"He's of the Caste of Vere de Vere, ye understand," he says to me, "The very Cat of Vere de Vere."

I'm not quite certain what Jamie is getting at. "The. . . what?"

"Aye, 'ee's full o' himself, the wee moggy," says Jamie, moving on to petting Adso behind one ear, "A barn cat, born and bred, with nowt to 'is name, yet there 'ee sits, _knowin'_ 'ee's God's oon whiskers, thankee _verrah_ much! But we have an understandin'." Jamie strokes down Adso's spine and tail, and the cat preens under the attention.

Since it's clear Jamie knows what to do with these cats, I confide in him. "They came over and sat on me! And they won't leave! What do I do?"

He laughs, softly, but long, "Nowt tae do, Sassenach. Jus' let 'em be. When ye need tae leave they'll ken it, and move on their oon."

"Oh," I say, still a bit unsure.

"Did ye no' have a pet of yer own growin' up?"

"Oh. Um, no." I'm not sure what else to say. I know for sure I can't tell him that the closest thing anyone I've ever known has had to a "pet" is one guy I knew in school who would paint faces on sugar beets and bring them to class.

"That's tae bad. The wee critters obviously like ye."

"But. . . _why_ do they like me? I'm a perfect stranger to them!"

"Weel, I understand why auld Alec here likes ye."

"You do?"

"Aye. He could tell yer foot was hurtin'."

I look at the cat sleeping across my ankles. "He could. . . tell?"

"Aye. Ye ken he was born wild - no' even a barn cat is auld Alec. Feral as they make 'em. But he loves his fellow creatures, he does. He walked inta the barn one day, an' sat down next tae Ginny - one o' our brood mares - while she was recoverin' from a colic. The next day he was in Falcon's box stall, curled up by the water bucket. And Falcon was nosin' him and whickerin' and acting all settled and happy, where usually he was so skittish he couldnae stand the _wind_ tae go past 'is stall. And it went on like that - Alec would ken it whenever one o' the horses needed him, and he'd go and sit wi' them until their pain left them. He may be a cat, but auld Alec is a better horseman than I or any Human will ever be."

He strokes Alec's head, fondly.

"But. . . I'm not a horse, Jamie."

He smiles, "Nae, ye'er no', but on the rare occasions Alec decides tae indulge in a visit tae a fireplace, he can only survive the strictures of civilization if he can imagine all us Humans are his beloved horses. Fer a cat born wild, it's quite a change from barn tae house, ye ken."

"So. . . he came and sat on me because he _thought_ I was a horse?"

"Mebbe," he says, kindly, "And mebbe he jus' kent ye were hurtin', and did after his nature."

I consider that for a minute. "And. . . Adso? Was _he_ just doing according to his nature?"

"Aye. A'course." Jamie slides off his chair and kneels next to me, much like he did yesterday, "Adso is of the Caste of Vere de Vere - an arristocrat - royalty even. A cat of ivory towers and solid gold wine goblets, and jeweled embroidery glimmering in scented candlelight. It doesnae matter where he's _from_ , that's who he _is_ \- real class." Jamie leans towards me, a soft smile on his face, "I ken he jus' recognized ye as one o' his own. . ."

I shake my head, amused, "Flatterer."

He leans a bit closer, "Nae, 'tis only the truth, Sassenach."

"But you don't _know_ that, Jamie."

"I ken yer eyes are exactly the same colour as his."

"That doesn't mean we're the same-"

"I ken I'm always kneeling before ye. . ."

I'm just about to close the short distance between our lips, when a black and white ball of fur suddenly wedges itself between Jamie and my couch, forcing us apart.

"Laoghaire! Ye daft numptie clotheid of a dug!"

I laugh, "Well, at least one of the animals here feels like most of the Humans do!"

He lifts Laoghaire bodily away from him, and regards me, a confused look on his face, "What do ye mean, Sassenach?"

"Oh. . ." I sigh, all my self-doubt returning in a rush, "Last night was terrible, and I'm sure at least ninety percent of the people here must hate me now. . ."

"Tha's. . . no' what I've been hearin'. . ."

"Indeed, it isnae!" says Mrs. Fitz, finally returning with a huge tray piled with our lunch, "Sorrae it took sae long dearie - I was called on three errands, and there was alsoo a talcum powder emergency. . ."

I laugh at the very thought of what such a thing could possibly be, "No worries, Mrs. Fitz! Jamie's been keeping me company."

"Aye, and Adso, Alec and Laoghaire have as well," says Jamie.

"Tha's good then," says Mrs. Fitz, handing each of us a plate loaded with bread, meat, cheese, and vegetables cut into strips, "And ye, young lady, are most ceartainly no' hated by most o' us."

I take a huge bite of bread and cheese, and mumble around it, "Bu las nit wuz _awful_!" I quickly chew and swallow, "I not only put my foot in my mouth, I put several other appendages there too! There's no _way_ the whole household isn't talking about the brash Sassenach and her over-bold tongue."

"Aye, that they are, dearie," says Mrs. Fitz, matter-of-factly, "An' to a man they're saying it did their hearts good tae see ye standing up tae Colum. There's none left here does so near often enough, save Dougal, and they say _he_ couldnae hardly keep 'is eyes off ye all night! Bewitched, they're sayin' _he_ is!"

I snort, but Jamie nods encouragingly at me, "Aye, the news 'round the stables is tha' both Colum and Dougal were impressed wi' ye from the start, and Colum intends tae give ye a job here on the farm."

"But that's _impossible_ , Jamie!" I say, "Maybe the general populace here doesn't hate me, but Colum and Dougal do!"

"But _why_ do ye think that, Sassenach?"

"Because they put _cameras_ in my room, Jamie! I'd lay odds Mrs. Fitz put them there herself. And then they Mirrored the computer they gave me, and set Angus and Rupert to watch my every move. Including when I changed clothes, if possible!"

He starts back, shocked, then whirls on Mrs. Fitz, "D'ye mean tae. . . ? How _dare_ they! _TELL_ me ye _didnae_!"

She looks back at him, steadily grim, "A'coorse I didnae. Hospitality is a sacred trust. But Angus and Rupert asked fer my help tae place the cameras - and sae I did. Oor appeared tae, ye ken. I placed one wrong, and popped t'other in a jar o' water the second I could find good excuse tae do so."

"And _I_ noticed something was up with the camera in my bedroom - the one she placed wrong - so I went ahead and did all the stuff I needed to do on the computer - searching for jobs, looking up words and things, and starting the process to get my ID card replaced, etc."

"Aye, and _then_ what did ye doo?" says Mrs. Fitz, holding back laughter.

I look at her, shocked, "They _told_ you? Of course, they must have, because you called me Mrs. Beauchamp right before supper, and at that point I hadn't told anyone except Jamie I was a widow. . . . but. . . they _told_ you? How much, I wonder?"

She laughs aloud, "All o' it, dearie. I made them tell me evarything after ye searched fer poisonous mushrooms."

"After ye _WHAT_?" says Jamie, with a barely restrained bellow.

"Mirroring leaves signs on the mirrored device, Jamie." I say, "Most notably, new search windows will open with a quick double-stutter blip - almost like two windows were opened at almost the exact same instant. Which is, in fact, what is happening. I _knew_ they had Mirrored my device. I went in and Mirrored them back though a Shadow window - that's the only way to effectively hide Mirroring - and it turns out they hadn't isolated my device properly. I could see the whole network, and all their activity. They were chatting about me, and talking about the cameras too, mentioning Mrs. Fitz and Dougal - you even got a mention." I grin at the memory, "So after I did the work I needed to do, I decided to mess with them a bit. I searched for poisonous mushrooms as a bluff, just to see what they would do, and then I hacked into their chat-app and told them off, and then I kicked the app off the server."

Mrs Fitz chuckles, "Ooch, Dougal got fair red in t'face after that, dearie."

"So, Dougal _does_ hate me?"

She shrugs, "Mebbe 'ee does. Whoo can say?"

"But that's _Dougal_ ," says Jamie, "No' Colum."

"And are you going to sit here and tell me he doesn't have _influence_ over Colum?"

"Nae," says Jamie, "But one thing I ken - Colum wouldnae - _nevar_ , ye heer? - wouldnae put spy cameras on ye. Agh, he'd set Rupert and Angus on ye - tell them tae watch ye day and night - _that_ he'd do. And mebbe he'd order this Mirroring business too, I dinnae ken much about that. But cameras in yer bedroom? Nae, he'd never do that - he's too proud o' his family reputation tae risk it."

"Which means - the cameras were all Dougal's idea, dearie."

"An' I doubt he's told Colum yet - seein' that his wing o' the house is still standin'."

"Aye, tae be sure, if Colum e're finds out, ye can bet there'll be hell tae pay. Hold it over him proper, an' ye can get the whip-hand on 'im, dearie."

All their unquestioning loyalty to me is making my head whirl. A completely unexpected lump rises in my throat. After eight years of war, I had forgotten that Humans like this existed.

"So jus' ye remember that when I tek ye up tae see Himself."

"To. . . what?" I blink. Wasn't that over?

"Aye, after ye finnish yer lunch, he'll be seeing ye." She takes in the confused look on my face, "Ye _did_ say Dougal had promised ye an audience wi' the Laird, did he no'?"

"But. . . last night. . ."

"Last night was _supper_ , dearie. No' an audience. Nae moor than a swarm o' bees is a meetin' wi' the Queen."

This leaves a surprisingly disturbing image in my mind, and I am silent for the rest of lunch.


	24. Without An Audience

Colum's office is the most dreary and chilly apartment I've seen in this house yet. The floor is an irregular dark grey tile, unglazed and uneven - uncomfortable and perilous to walk on. It suggests stone cobbles, which, I have to say, is an odd visual to use in an upstairs room. There is a wrought-iron marble-topped table just inside the door, set with three heavy glass jars full of unpolished chunks of semi-precious gemstones - amethyst, and lapis, and some cloudy yellowish green stone I've never seen before. Next to the jars is a large brass orrery that glitters under the recessed spotlighting. Three walls are entirely covered in a heavy-woven, dark red and gold tapestry. They're warm colors, and the cloth is thick and richly draped, so it's surprising how little the curtains dispel the room's oppressive chill. Colum's desk is at the far end, in front of two large windows that look out on the grey, drizzly afternoon. Only here are the tapestries pulled back, and the light from the windows is bright enough, even if muted by clouds and rain.

There's one chair behind the desk - large, covered in studded-leather, and imposing. And there is one chair in front of it - small, carved of wood, and upholstered in pale grey.

No extra points for guessing which one is the Hot Seat.

Or would be, if he was here. But he isn't here yet.

Which is odd, when I think about it. I've already seen how the man enters a room - slowly, painfully, and only with a great deal of mechanical help. There isn't much to be gained by subjecting me to the spectacle again, especially in private. And I have to assume he's had ample time to prepare for this meeting, since Mrs. Fitz gave me extra time to go change into something more formal than the random slacks and tunic I threw on this morning. I even had time to make a cursory search for the replacement cameras I _know_ must be lurking in my room - and I found a microphone wire. It had been slipped into the hem of the neon purple jumpsuit I decided to wear, and I only noticed it because my foot brushed a cold, spiky thing sticking through where only soft cloth ought to have been.

I removed it, but only to the pocket of the jumpsuit.

If I need to tell Colum about his brother's. . . security activities. . . then it will make for good evidence. And it's not as if I'm going to tell Colum a different story in private than I've already told in public. Perhaps it'll be more detailed, but it won't be different.

Let Dougal listen in, if he wants.

But he won't be _able_ to listen to anything unless Colum actually gets here. . .

I grow tired of standing in the middle of the room, and go sit on the small, grey-upholstered chair. His desk is an enormous, solidly-constructed block of a thing, just as imposing as the chair behind it. It really is very strange that Colum wasn't here long before I entered, sitting behind it, dignified and upright, like a falcon ready to pounce the minute his prey comes into view.

 _That_ would be an effective way of keeping me off-balance. But letting me into the room first, letting me slowly get accustomed to my surroundings, as cold and as depressing as they might be, with no supervision?

That isn't just odd. That's _impossible_. No, there's something else going on.

No matter. I have all day. And I haven't yet had a chance to really analyze last night's discussions anyway.

So. What can I suppose were the results of our game of rounders? I think I carried off that I was from present-day Oxford, at least. My asking why it even mattered seemed to satisfy them on that point. But there had been those probing questions about Boston, too. . .

And of course I had taunted Dougal with a mention of Boston, but that was in reference to the banner I left on his computer after I'd kicked the chat-app off the server. So, that was all that was. Taunting.

Right?

But Colum had said I sounded American before that. Whether I do sound American or not I have no idea, but Colum was very clearly leading the discussion in that direction before I bluntly brought it up.

So maybe _that_ was why Dougal reacted so strongly to the word? He didn't think I would so boldly admit a connection to Boston in public like that, after having made so forceful a statement with it in private?

It's possible. Not very, but somewhat.

However, what statement he thought I was making there's no way to tell. What possible importance can Boston have to Scottish Clan leaders thousands of kilometers away?

I don't know. Moving on. . .

I'd clearly put my foot in it three times - once with the boy Hamish, once when I'd snapped at Colum for not using modern medicine, and once when describing my personal philosophy of humour. Unrelated things, that don't seem to make any sort of a pattern. . .

Right then. Take them one at a time.

Hamish. A cute boy, adventurous and lively. In the few seconds I've seen of him, he seems to have a more active connection to Dougal than to his father, but that is probably because Dougal is more active himself. Even his mother likely doesn't have much time for the boy, seeing as she is Colum's primary caretaker. . .

Oh.

Oh, _of course_ . .

That would make a lot of sense.

Neither Dougal nor Colum would thank me for pointing out that it is only too obviously impossible for Colum to have fathered a child, or that it is equally obvious that Dougal loves the boy quite uninhibitedly. In my experience, men rarely show such open affection for children not their own, but with my memories of Lamb so clearly in my mind yesterday morning, I had instantly assumed that Dougal was what Hamish had called him. Uncle.

And so it might be. I have no proof, only a strong suspicion. But by the sour look on Letitia's face all evening, clearly Colum himself suspects something, and my comments, no matter how innocent, could all too easily have been taken as taunting.

Which I _did_ do quite a lot of, so, no blame to Colum if he thinks that was just one more example.

Also no blame to him if he was offended at my snap-back about his refusal to use a CRISpRs treatment on his legs. That was entirely out of line of me, I fully acknowledge it.

Dougal came to my rescue after I said it, though. I still don't know why. . .

It can't be altruism, as he went immediately on the attack again. It couldn't have been a hidden attack of its own, since I had immediately apologized, and the incident smoothed over.

So what did Dougal gain from handing me an out?

Maybe. . . knowledge that I _would take_ an out he gave me? Because he handed me at least three after that. And I took them all.

To his growing confusion.

Now, why would he be confused about that? A strange woman, who is only present in his home because he all but ordered her to be there, in the middle of a very pointed inquisition, takes any outs that are given her. Why is that cause for confusion? Especially when _he_ was the one giving me the outs?

It would only make sense if. . . if. . .

If _he was in fact the one defending himself_.

What if Dougal _thought_ I was attacking, and in _self_ -defense handed me ways out of the conflicts, new angles on the discussion that steered away from dangerous subtexts? Things that _looked_ like outs for me, but were actually outs for _him_? And I kept taking them, confusing him as to why I would never push my attacks.

 _That_ is possible. Very, almost extremely possible.

And, in ignorance, I may well have attacked. _What_ I don't know, and _how_ I don't know. The first time Dougal handed me an out, every word I'd said was a personal snap at Colum, nothing sub-textually threatening. . .

No. I had also said Scots were rebels.

Rebels. . . rebellion. . .

My breath catches in my throat.

Heaven help me, how could I have forgotten Culloden?

The Second Battle of Culloden isn't due to happen for over three years yet, but I'd bet my bone marrow they're planning it _now_. Planning it, and probably already gathering funding for it. Already bribing officials so they can pull it off. Already collecting information on all the Peace Agents they're going to slaughter.

I'd said Scots are rebels, and isn't that taking things a bit far.

Just about the worst choice of words possible, if they thought I was alluding to their plans. Just how far those plans have gotten as yet, there's no telling, but I wonder. . . yes I _do_ wonder. . . if Colum is in it at all, how much has Dougal told him?

Because, clearly, it's Dougal who is doing the legwork, so to speak.

This would explain the third incident too. I had said a sense of humour is equal to a sense of justice, of right and wrong. . . that it was a rare man who could bend the rules but never break them. Ominous words, to people planning a gigantic revenge massacre. No wonder Dougal couldn't believe it when I said that I don't consider myself all that English.

And then, I finish up the night by actually telling him that broken spirits are a holy sacrifice!

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, by this point, Dougal probably thinks I work for Sandringham!

Forget rounders, we were playing Behead The Aristocrat with razor sharp battle axes, and I didn't even know it!

And _there's_ the Boston connection. I've just remembered Bonnie Stewart.

American citizen. Boston socialite. Scottish princess.

A large cog in the very messy clockwork of the Third Scottish War of Independence.

No wonder Dougal got red in the face when he saw that banner. Practically everything I've done since stepping out of the side room in that garage has been, if not outright antagonistic, then at least highly suspicious, as far as Dougal is concerned. From his point of view, my inadvertently warning them about the checkpoint at Cocknammon might well have been a calculated gesture on my part, a play to try and earn his trust.

It's even clear why he so insisted that I accompany them home, and made me hide in that cupboard with Jamie instead of handing me over to the English right there at Cocknammon. A probable English agent, who was attacked by Black Jack, can repair a state-of-the-art plasma engine, _and_ who knows about an unannounced checkpoint? Just how much does she _know_?

And until he finds out exactly what I do know, there's no way Dougal is letting me out of his grasp. She _must_ be packed off to Leoch!

And then, almost the first thing I do upon arriving here is hack the computer he's specifically set up to monitor me. And _then_ I tell off his top two minions, _and_ shove the word "Boston" in his face.

But then, at supper, I _wouldn't_ press my "attacks", and I insist I'm not patriotic, even that I consider it too dangerous a thing for me to use! He could be forgiven for thinking I'm world's most _idiotic_ spy.

But - he _knows_ I'm not stupid.

Small blame to him if he's endlessly confused by it all.

Oh well, there's no fixing that just now. Dougal thinks what he thinks, and somehow, I'll just have to convince him I'm not a threat to him. I don't know how, yet, but this is only Day 3. There's time.

But Colum though. . . Colum, I might still have a chance with right now. It's obvious now that he went into last night's interrogation only half informed, and thanks to his and Dougal's differing ideas on the sanctity of hospitality, he will have to _remain_ less-than-fully informed. If I don't bring up Hamish or currently-modern medical procedures, I might be able to get through a conversation with him successfully.

If he ever shows up, that is. . .

I realize I've been staring at the things on his desk without really seeing them. An empty blue enamel vase. A lamp shaded with a half-globe of green and white glass. An actual fountain pen next to an inkwell containing real ink. An elaborate bronze filigree picture frame, the picture facing away from me. A stack of pale cream-coloured folders to one side of the central work area, and an empty info-screen stand to the other.

Nothing of even mild interest to me.

Then, my eye catches a strange something on. . . or _in_. . . the elaborately geometrical stand of the picture frame. A little sliver of glimmering, glowing red, encased inside a small cube of bronze filigree.

An active camera. Here. In the _family's_ wing of the house.

So _that's_ their game, is it? They want to see what I'd do if left alone in Colum's office, do they?

No. . . no that's not it at all. Rupert and Angus would have learned by now - active cameras glow. And if either one of them was monitoring this camera specifically, I highly doubt they'd take a chance I wouldn't notice it. Not after yesterday's debacle. Also, there is such a small sliver of a glow, it is clearly pointing away from me, _towards_ whatever is on the desk. Towards that stack of pale folders. Maybe they're meant to bait me? If I was a spy, I'd probably be tempted to go look at them. But I'm not, and I don't care what they are. Which was probably clear to anyone watching ten, fifteen minutes ago - so what's the holdup?

Then again. . . rich metal filigree isn't the sort of surface that can be easily replicated with a sheet of contact paper and a standard in-house printer, like wood grain can. It would take precise, delicate, skilled work to make a piece like that indistinguishable from the rest of the picture frame. This camera wasn't put here this morning.

No, for whatever reason, that camera is here to watch _Colum_. It's probably been here for weeks or months, if not years. Perhaps its presence is the reason Dougal even has access to spy cameras in the first place. And that's why Colum has been kept in the dark about any information gained on me this way. Perhaps he doesn't know about the presence of _any_ spy cameras at all.

If so. . .

Well, if so, then "gaining the whip hand" as Mrs. Fitz put it, might be far easier than I ever realized. . .

And if those folders are meant as bait for me, then that trap was set by _Dougal_ , and no one else. Colum has no reason to be leaving me alone in his office like this, and most likely no way to know he could be spying on me right now.

So, _what_ is it that's taking him so long?

A section of the tapestry in the far right-hand corner of the room whips back so suddenly, I jump in surprise. It's Dougal himself, but he only sends one dark, sneering, exasperated look in my direction, before snapping to attention, pole-straight, back to the rear wall.

"Be upstanding for Himself," he says, formally.

I stand, and Colum enters, the servomotors of his mechanical braces whirring and straining slightly over the uneven surface of the cobbled floor.

As soon as his brother is seated, Dougal leaves, without another glance or word, the deep red curtain pulled closed as sharply as it was pulled back. Clearly, he is upset.

Colum isn't, though. But he does look somewhat abstracted, as though his mind is on far greater matters than one random Sassenach. This is evidenced by the fact that he has yet to say a word to me, or even look at me straight on.

I sat down again as soon he did, and since he raised no protest, I assume that was okay. Now he has shifted the pile of folders to his main work-space, opening them each in turn and reading their contents, almost as if I am not here at all.

That's fine with me. Being snubbed is far better than being probed.

But I know a sibling rivalry when I see it. Only child that I am, I had ample chances to observe this exact same sort of contention all the time at school. Brother versus brother, sister versus brother, brother versus sister, sister versus sister. It's the only confrontation I know of that could possibly leave _Dougal_ visibly upset, and Colum so icily calm. Stone may sharpen iron, but it can strike sparks from it too. If I had to guess, I'd say he and Dougal have been arguing since breakfast, and that's the reason for all the delay. What they've been arguing about, I have no idea, but I have to assume I figured in at least part of their _tête-à-tête_.

Considering the unconcealed hatred I saw in Dougal's face when he sneered at me, perhaps they've been arguing about Hamish. . .

"It has come tae my attention," Colum says at last, though still not looking up from his papers, "That I ought to ask ye how ye came tae be limping through the woods of Upper Inverness, despoiled of all yer goods, save yer clothes, a bag, and a bottle." He looks up, finally, a pointed expression on his face.

I smile, ruefully, "It was when. . . when I finally stopped driving - and realized where I was - that I knew it was too late to go back into Inverness and find lodgings for the night. . . if I could even have afforded them. Which I doubt."

"And yet ye could afford a rental car?"

"Yes. . . and that about emptied my account. I had just enough left over to get some tea in Inverness," I swallow, remembering just how close to the edge of starvation I've lived these past few months, "But, anyway, I pulled behind some trees, and made a bit of a camp. Then I went into the woods to try and find some food."

"Jus' like that?"

"Oh yes," I say, knowledgeably, "Food is everywhere in the wild, if you know what to look for."

"And ye do?"

"Certainly. I'm a trained botanist, sir."

"Ah yes. I had forgotten. Go on."

That is a lie. He hasn't forgotten a word of our previous conversation, I'm absolutely certain. He wanted me to say it again, to see if he could poke any holes in my story.

"Well, I filled my bag with some mushrooms, chestnuts, and alisanders, I found and ate some hawthorn berries, I filled my bottle with water, and went back to camp."

He nods, solemnly, "And then?"

"Well, I barely know! There were people - men! - all over my camp, trashing my car, taking my things. And when they saw me, they yelled, and started chasing me. I barely got away. I spent the night in the woods." It's a likely enough story, and nothing I've done since tells against it. I lift my crutch, "I turned my ankle the next morning, before I found a road again."

"Yer car - did it have English plates?"

"Yes. I rented it in Oxford."

He nods again, positively this time. "It sounds like The Watch's work. Renegade devils. Any car with English plates would be more than fair game, and so would ye."

"Oh. . ." A roving band of renegades! For a moment I can hardly believe my luck.

"Where did ye cross the border?"

I blink. I hadn't considered that.

"Uhm. . ." I shake my head, "I don't remember. I had a lot of other things on my mind." Well, the last part is true, at least.

"Were there any distinctive things that were stolen from ye?"

"No. They were clothes, mostly. And a pair of boots. All I had in the world. . ." I cast my mind back to the small canvas bag still in Mrs. Graham's charge back at the manse, and feel a strange, distant longing for a certain half-crate deep in storage on Skycity 15.

"Weel, that bein' t'case, thare's nae way tae tell when they picked up yer trail, and probably nae way tae track 'em after."

I'm beginning to get Colum's measure. He is a man of dignity and pride, yes, but his accent deepens when he is confident.

Which means he isn't always confident.

"Oh well," I say with false brightness, "Time to begin again, I suppose."

"Aye," says Colum, a glint in his eyes, "And what can ye tell me about Black Jack?"

I huff an incredulous, scornful grunt. "Only two things. First, what I know. He's a bastard. And secondly, what I've been told. He's a bastard."

"Aye." He taps a finger slowly on the topmost folder in front of him, "An' who told ye his name?"

I furrow my brow, confused at such a question, "Murtagh. When he was carrying me away."

Colum considers this for an unaccountably long time. When he finally speaks again, his voice is kinder than I've yet heard it.

"Very well. Have ye considered what ye're going tae do next, Mrs. Beauchamp?"

"A little bit," I say, treading carefully around my computer activities of yesterday, "I've sent a request for a copy of my birth certificate, so I can start the process of getting a new ID card. And until then I don't think I qualify for a work permit."

"Nae. Ye don't," he says.

"Not that I'm going to be good for much for a week or so anyway," I say, lifting my crutch a little.

"Nae good fer outdoor work, mayhap," he says, smiling austerely, "But ye may keep yerself well indoors fer many days wi' what I have in mind."

"And. . . what is that?"

"Ye may be unaware, Mrs. Beauchamp, that _official_ Guests of Scottish Clans have privileges not afforded tae the ordinary tourist."

"Indeed. I didn't know that."

"These privileges include workin' on Clan property - volunteerin', more like - as a gift in thanks for hospitality."

I nod, but say nothing.

"Wi' yer room and yer board provided as a matter o'coorse, ye may mix wi' the residents, and in yer exchanges gather tae yerself what niceties remain - clothes and suchlike. An' a'coorse ye may be gi'en coin for product made or searvice rendered - tho' no' beyond the common price, nor beyond the common askin' of yer station."

I understand him very well. But I draw myself up, and put on my most stoic attitude. He won't offer charity, and it must not seem as if I am accepting such from him. Either would be an unforgivable insult at this juncture. This must be a business arrangement, beneficial to both.

"Make your offer plainly, sir, so that I might consider it properly."

He presses both hands flat on his desk, "Weel then. Heer ye are. And heer am I, wi' a large arable farm, on the edge o' wintar, and wi'out anyone tae manage it fer me. Th'last manager was Davie Beaton, of Beaton and Sons, dead three months gone from a weakness o' the heart. His shoos will no' be easy tae fill." He looks me directly in the eyes, though not unkindly, "Will ye make the attempt?"

I pause for a long moment, as though deeply considering it.

"With all humility, I will, sir."

He nods, and extends a hand.

The moment I've been waiting for. The knitted yellow poncho I'm wearing comes down past my hands, and because of the crutch, I have an excuse to stand somewhat sidelong. With one hand I reach out to shake his. The other is near the bronze picture frame, hidden behind a drape of yellow cloth. With one smooth motion, I pluck away the filigree camera cube. It is stowed away in my pocket next to the microphone wire, the second our handshake is completed.

I'm glad it came away so easily, because right then Colum presses a hidden button, and Dougal is back in the room so instantly, it is obvious he was waiting just beyond the door hidden by the curtain. I wonder if he was listening at the keyhole too.

No matter if he has. I have all the ammunition I need, now. Dougal will probably never stop being a thorn in my side for the duration of my stay here, but after today, the dynamic between us _will_ change drastically, I promise myself that.

"Take Mrs. Beauchamp tae the Manager's buildings, an' give her the keys tae Beaton's auld workshop," he orders, "Show her the lay of the land."

Dougal looks at me coldly, "Aye."

"And arrange for a runner or two tae be put at her disposal for the next fortnight at least - or until Mrs. Beauchamp informs us her foot is sufficiently healed."

"Aye," Dougal says again.

Colum turns back to his folders, instantly forgetting me and Dougal, focused entirely on whatever he has in hand.

Dougal gestures me towards the door. I carefully tap my way across the tile cobbles. He leads me down stairs and through long passageways, waiting indifferently as I navigate more slowly. We don't speak.

A doorless runabout is waiting near a side entrance. The late autumn air strikes cold though the thin clothes I'm wearing, but it's only for a minute. The manager's barn is one of the nearest outbuildings to the house, between a covered garage, and the thick grove of fruit trees that lie just beyond the kitchen garden.

Dougal unlocks the door to a side room of the barn, and ushers me down several steps to a large, extremely untidy office.

Apparently, Davie Beaton didn't believe in filing cabinets.

I've just taken one step towards the junk-covered desk, when Dougal grips me roughly by one shoulder, and pushes me up against a cupboard.

"D'ye have _any_ notion the morning I've had? The morning _ye'ev_ caused me?" His eyes crackle with anger, and he leans his face far too close to mine. "Ye'ev no _idea_ what I'm going tae do tae ye, now I have ye alone. . ."

He's expecting me to be the fire-eater from yesterday. Fortunately, I have fuel to stoke my smoldering flames, or I don't know how I would have dealt with this spitting-mad Highlander, seeing as he's all too willing to get physical with me. I muster all my contempt, and sneer at him.

"But are we _really_ alone, Dougal?" I hold up the microphone wire and the little filigree cube. He recognizes both immediately, flinching away from me before making a shocked, clumsy grab at them I evade easily. "And do you _really_ expect me to believe you haven't already bugged _this_ room to hell and back too? I have a tale to tell Colum if I choose. One that would make _this_ morning seem as easy as pissing on daisies."

I raise my crutch, and brace myself as well as I can on my bruised ankle, ready to strike back at him if he lunges at me.

His beard bristles and his eyes narrow. When he speaks, his voice is tight, and completely unapologetic.

"So," he growls, "What now?"

I push some random papers off the nearby desk chair with the foot of my crutch, and sit down, as dignified as Colum ever was. I gesture to the chair across from mine.

Slowly, Dougal removes the junk from it, glaring at me fiercely the entire time.

As soon as he sits, I ostentatiously open the top drawer of the desk, and drop the camera and wire into it, slamming it shut with a satisfying bang.

"Now," I say, fixing him with a stare, "It's war."


	25. Declarative Clause

Dougal wants to laugh at my declaration of war. I can see it in his eyes, and the workings of his mouth. But I've wrested just enough power away from him that I have the ability to make his life an endless hell, and he knows that at the moment, I'm not terribly opposed to doing so.

And so, softly, softly.

"War?" he says, placidly ominous, "Ye ken I'm Clan MacKenzie's War Chief, aye?"

"Oh, I'm fully aware of who _I_ am dealing with."

That brings him up short. The both of us are only in this situation because he _doesn't_ know who he's dealing with. I got his measure, or at least part of it, almost at once, and he has yet to _begin_ to understand me. I'm sure the opponents he's used to don't often declare openly that they're smarter than him, so I'm not surprised it takes him a second to absorb my meaning.

I see it when the point lands, though. He freezes into a forbidding block of ice at the shock of it. This wee Sassenach _presumes_.

"Then _deal_. Ma _dame_ ," he growls, so clearly unused to the short end of the stick that I almost have pity on him.

Almost.

"Well then. I think the situation is fairly clear." I lean my elbows on a relatively flat expanse of papers stacked across Davie Beaton's old desk, "Firstly - I've kept your secrets. Well, I've kept them from Colum, anyway - and he's the one who matters, so we'll let the rest go by." I look him in the eyes briefly, and see him realize that I have allies among his people already. He isn't entirely pleased about that.

I enjoy the tiny squirm he makes far, far more than I should.

I continue, "Neither last night nor this afternoon did I - deliberately or otherwise - reveal your use of surveillance equipment. On both me and on Colum."

He squirms again.

"And I might easily have mentioned it - on either occasion."

"Yer _point_?" he snaps.

"My point is. . ." I look him in the eyes again, "You owe me."

"Fine," he grinds out, " _What do ye want_?"

I lean back, "I want a promise."

"What?"

His face goes slack, even as the look in his eyes sharpens further. It's clearly the last thing he expected me to demand.

"Just that," I say, simply, "I want your promise."

He stares at me, baffled, and says nothing.

"I want you to promise me, that if this is war - let it be honourable war."

His jaw tightens. He still says nothing.

I cross my arms, "No more bugs. No cameras, no microphones, no computer hacking. No sly questions that are half insinuation and half attack. No more interrogations. No lateral moves against friends or relatives. Only you, versus me. Everything aboveboard, with our own colours and banners clear. Open intent. Clean battle. Honorable victories, and equally honourable defeats. We don't have to like each other. Let's at least be honest about it."

As I lay it all out, his expression doesn't soften, but the hardness in it changes. Slowly, it goes from a bitter, vicious hate, to a grudging, acidic respect, no less in its adamancy, but far cleaner in its intent. I suspect he usually reserves this sort of attitude for his feuds with other clans, because when he speaks again, it is not with the tightly bridled rage of the last few minutes, nor his usual studied smoothness, nor even with his deliberately deepened Scottish brogue.

"Ye'r demanding I give ye an equal portion among the sons, then?" he says, in a rounder, more natural tone than I've heard from him yet, "Hev' ye no shame, lassie?"

"The shameful part of all this is the fact that _I've been driven to demand equality in the first place_ , Dougal."

He considers me silently for a long while.

"Aye. Perhaps ye'r right. But what is it makes ye think I'd _keep_ any such promise, hm?"

I smile, "At the marrow, Dougal Mackenzie, you're a man of your word." I gesture significantly at the desk drawer, "Oh, I might have a few bits and bobs to hold over you now, but they're _nothing_ compared to what I'd have if I could ever brand you a _traitor_."

The word hits home. And not, I think, because of anything to do with Culloden, past or present. Dougal Mackenzie is, in fact, a patriot, a Chieftain, and a man of his word.

I have his measure now, every essential part of it, and he knows it.

"Very well," he says, eyes gleaming. I see his warrior's blood rise to the toothsome challenge I've laid down. The Sassenach presumes to demand things of him, but what _is_ she demanding? Fair combat? Perhaps there's a scrap of honour in her after all! At any rate, he's much less repulsed than he thought he'd be. . . "Ye have my promise."

"Say the words," I say, holding onto the thread of chivalry that seems to be winding though this day's events, "Let me hear the vow."

"I, Dougal Mackenzie, do hereby promise noble warfare between myself and ye, as is clean and right 'twixt enemies of equal station." He almost smiles as he says it. Yes, he's looking forward to our noble warfare. "Satisfied?"

"Thank you," I say, nodding solemnly. That should take care of that. Dougal will probably be far easier for me to deal with from now on, though I still can never let my guard down.

Clean victory. Fair defeat.

But that still doesn't make him an ally.

Now, it's time for the spanner in the works.

"Now then," I say, as though turning to the next obvious item on the list, "I owe _you_ a promise."

His head comes up, his expression hardening again. He's gotten used to me the fire-eater, me the dragon-slayer, me the medieval knightess pitting sword versus battle axe, and surprisingly getting the best of it.

He's forgotten that I'm only Claire Beauchamp: Normal Human, with just as much desire for peace as for honour, and no desire for battle at all, no matter how glorious.

"Ye. . . owe me. . . ?"

I sigh, "Let's be honest, Dougal. You know as well as I do that no war has ever solved anything."

"But. . ."

"No, Dougal. Admit it. No war has _ever_ solved _any_ thing. At the very best, wars can give the combatants another _chance_ to solve things - a _chance_ to make things right. A chance that is very seldom taken, historically speaking. And as for the wars themselves? No. They only make things worse. Every time. You know it, and I know it."

He only stares at me, more confused than ever.

"So. Let's take our chance now. Let's fix whatever this is _now_. _Before_ we make each other's lives hell - as we both can, and probably will, if we continue. Well, I say no. Why waste time? Why waste the _effort_? I owe you a promise. Now, take it."

After fair defeat, the last thing he expected was to be given the reins again. Now, they're in his hands. But they're there at my behest, and he knows that if he takes them up, he's truly acknowledging me as an equal - both in mind and in power - who can show mercy or exact full payment, just as I will.

The grudging, marble-hard respect in his eyes grows ever so slightly less cold.

"I want ye tae tell me the truth. Whatever I ask ye. The exact truth."

I can't help smiling. He has no idea how much he _doesn't_ want that. . .

And yet. . .

Why not? If he manages to ask anything that I can't answer without revealing I'm from the future, then, so be it. I'll tell him. I have literally nothing to lose. He can only call me crazy, and disbelieve me. Then we'd be back to square one, no harm, no foul. And if he by some chance _does_ believe me, well. . .

I can't think of a better way to make him an ally, in the end.

"I like it," I say, smiling fully, "For three questions - and I can refuse to answer any of them, for any reason I wish."

He raises his eyebrows, "Terms? Ye didnae let _me_ have terms."

"That's because my request was specific. If I promise to tell you nothing but the truth, with no terms or conditions, give you ten minutes and you'd be asking me about my fetishes, and really, let's just not even go there. . ."

For the first time since the garage, I hear him laugh. A deep, pleasant sound, and far more effective than his growls, if only he knew it.

"Fair enough, lass. If ye refuse tae answer, it doesnae count against the three, agreed?"

"Agreed."

A sly look comes up in his eyes, but this time it is tempered with a spark of good-natured mischief.

"Say the words. Promise me."

Well. That's fair.

"I, Claire Beauchamp, promise to tell the exact truth, for three questions, in total, asked today, by Dougal Mackenzie."

"Claire Beauchamp. . ." he says, contemplatively, "I've wondered if ye'd told the truth about yer name."

"I did," I nod, "That's who I am. And don't worry - I'm not counting that as the first question."

He gives me a quick look, but then leans forward and composes himself to do some very sober thinking.

"Why," he asks, slowly, "did ye mention Boston? In yer computer hacking, ye ken."

I smile, the memories flowing over me again. "Because of Rosalie George and Ahmed Khan." I look up, and out, through the dusty cobwebs framing the windows, to the flat, cold grey of the sky, and remember. "Old school friends of mine. We would go into the city on the weekends, and sit by the international arrivals at the airport."

"Why would ye do that?" says Dougal's voice, as though from far away.

I don't let it distract me.

"Because we were young and stupid, that's why. Young, stupid, and very determined. Determined to hack into the air-traffic control computer and change the electronic welcome banner. Why to Boston? Who knows? We were dumb kids, I forget how or why we hit on that city name. Rosie and I would sit in a caf with our computers and get past layer after layer of security - Ahmed ran interference for us if anyone ever asked too many questions - not that any of the officials were ever fooled for long. We were thrown out so many times, I'm surprised they didn't ban us." I laugh, remembering one particularly hilarious incident with Rosie and an order of deep-fried chicken hearts. . . "Maybe it was because we never seemed to be able to get past the last security wall. We could get into the computer proper, but we couldn't make it past the employee password it took to be let in to change the welcome banner - we always came down to guessing, and that's the best way to get caught. But one day, we did it. A dozen or so people were confused for ten minutes. It was the least and most useless of victories, but oh, how we laughed!"

I come back to the here and now, and focus on Dougal again. "It was worth it, just to laugh like that once in my life. I lost touch with them both after school. . . I. . . don't even know if they're still alive or not. But that memory is alive." I idly push a small pile of assorted washers and bolts along the desktop, "That answer your question?"

He has drawn his brows together, in confusion or concentration I'm not quite certain - perhaps it's both. He nods minutely. "After a fashion."

I shrug. "Question Two?"

"Who have ye worked for? As a farm technician, I mean."

I smile tightly, "I can't answer that. I've worked for many farming concerns, and at each one I've produced several copyrighted hybrids. Concealing what I made, and who for, and when I made them, are standard parts of the normal NDA, and usually, to be safe, they just make a blanket restriction - no revealing who you've worked for or when. If you're a good farm tech, word of you usually still manages to get around, so. . ."

I shrug slightly, and for a second I almost forget that none of the companies I've worked for exist yet, and as such, the NDA's are invalid. But that's not what I was asked, and my answer is literally true.

Dougal purses his lips, but says nothing yet.

"However, in the interest of completeness, I'll say that, as of half an hour ago, I officially work for Colum Mackenzie. And that's the first job I've had in nine months."

"Ye havenae worked in nine months?"

"I didn't say that. Keeping your unemployed head above water is a _lot_ of very hard work."

He ponders on that for a minute.

"Anyway," I say, with forced brightness, "Question Two, Round Two?"

He taps the armrest of his chair, softly and rhythmically. "When ye were in the garage, before ye came out tae fix the Rover - what did ye hear?"

I knit up my forehead, confused at such an odd question. He's wasting one of his three absolutely truthful answers on _this_? Why? But I refuse to quibble. I cast my mind back, feeling almost as though it were months ago instead of days. . . "Uhm. . . well, let's see. Rupert said he was no Davie Beaton. And, um, Jamie said he took care of the horses and not your arses. And there was a lot of arguing about the Rover. Murtagh stood up for me, and Angus told you about Black Jack."

"Yes. And?"

"And? Um. . . Before Murtagh and Angus rescued me, I saw a car on the verge, surrounded by Black Jack and his men. I think that car belonged to Angus?"

"Yes. And what else?"

I go over everything I can remember again. "Nothing that I can recall. But then, I had just woken up. I might have forgotten a few things."

His eyes narrow, "Ye didnae hear any of us say we'd been campaigning past the border?"

"Oh, is _that_ what this is about? Yeah, I heard that mentioned, a few times. So what?"

" _So_ , ye're English. Dinnae ye care we were breakin' yer rules?"

I bark a laugh, "Hardly _my_ rules, Dougal! Why should I care? None of these imposed regs will make it past the Transitional Period, I have no doubt. So what does it matter?"

"Ye really feel that way about it?"

Yes. As someone who was born well into the twenty-third century, and _after_ nuclear Armageddon, I really feel that way about it.

"Why not? The whole thing has the look of a sham to it, anyway. You've got the English to the right _and_ left of you during this whole process, holding your hands like you're some sort of brain-damaged three-year-old who doesn't know how to be a country! As if you hadn't already _earned_ your independence centuries ago - regardless of whether it was denied you or not."

Dougal gives me a look, like he has no idea how to take such an attitude from someone like me. "Earned it?" he says, half-incredulously.

"Well, yeah. I mean, all it takes is _wanting_ freedom. That's enough to earn the right to be free - no matter if your wishes are honoured or not. No matter if it's _possible_ or not. The right remains."

"Ye. . . really believe that?"

"Yes. I really believe that."

Considering that the place will be Cold Island 12 in a matter of a few generations, I figure Scotland should have whatever it wants, as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

Dougal retreats for a minute or two, regarding me intensely.

I wonder if his third question will be if I've ever been to Culloden.

Because if he asks, I'm going to tell him. All of it.

On the Skycities it's so easy to forget - we're _taught_ to forget - what living in a country was like. Now, here, I can see that in a world with only floating Cities, a Human's sense of place is compromised, and the tribal memories that used to link us to the land are shamefully worn away.

It's easy for me to remember that in the middle of the British Cold War, a collection of Scotsmen lured a few thousand Peace Agents to the Culloden moor, and there took revenge for the First Battle of Culloden. It's easy to remember that The Duke of Sandringham, English overseer of the Scottish Independence Committee, leveraged the incident to his own advantage, while making it abundantly clear at the same time exactly how much he hated Scotland, Scottish people, and all Scottish traditions. It's easy to remember that the political fallout from the incident left Free Scotland without functional diplomatic or trade channels with England, America, and most of Europe, driving an isolationist philosophy that eventually led to their early adoption of a NETT grid, and their pivotal role in the Unity War. It's easy to remember their heroic, but ultimately doomed role in WWIII.

It's easy to remember the place being renamed Cold Island 12.

It was even easy for me to see the monument for the Second Battle of Culloden, and not condemn those Scots who died taking their centuries-delayed revenge. It's easy to remember the inexorable tragedy of the First Battle of Culloden, and trace all subsequent tragedies back to it.

It's easy to remember all of that.

It's less easy for me to feel what someone like Dougal Mackenzie or Jamie Fraser or Annie Campbell must feel at this moment in history. Their country, their home, their _land_. They want freedom, but they also want justice. And, for many, that means extracting the price in blood.

It's a want I cannot truly feel, but, in this moment, I desperately want to understand it.

They might _take_ the no-fault freedom that Queen Victoria is offering, but more - much, much more - they want a freedom that _means_ something.

They want the freedom they earned centuries ago, but was denied them. They want the freedom that's _owed_ them.

And if that means borrowing trouble, then, there simply will be no stopping them.

But Fate is a terribly exact money-lender, and it always demands its patrons pay in full.

I do want justice for them. Truly.

But I want justice for _my_ time and place too. And whatever else Dougal Mackenzie might be doing, he certainly is not playing the long game. Or, at least, not long enough to see past the bounds of his own people, his own land. . . his own life.

And here am I, not bound to any people, nor to land. . . nor to my own lifespan.

No wonder he and I clash like swords in battle.

"Question Three?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He doesn't ask right away, as though going back and forth between two questions he really wants to ask. Finally, he makes his choice.

"Why did ye take so against being watched? After all, if ye'd nothing tae hide-"

I scoff in disgust, "Oh, we're back to _this_ , are we? Here's a revolutionary concept - _of course_ I have things to hide! My tits not least among them! I don't _need an excuse_ to demand my privacy, Dougal. It's a basic Human right. Or at least it is where I come from."

He looks at me pointedly, "An' is that the exact truth?"

"Of _course_ it isn't!" I yell. Then suddenly, my anger collapses into sadness, and I look down at my fingertips as they trace patterns on the dusty desktop. "You really want to know? Fine."

I try to take a deep breath, but the last decade of my life comes up to me, and sits on my heart, forcing all the fight out of my soul.

"How would you feel," I say, my voice very small, "If, in the past eight years, you lost your parents, your inheritance, your spouse. . ." my voice tries to falter, but I push through it, "your child, your job, your home, and the majority of everything you possess? How would you feel if you reached a point where the only thing left for you to do was _run_ , and you didn't care if that made you a coward, just so long as it gave you a reason to keep breathing? How would you feel if, the minute you felt you might have a chance to catch your breath again, almost the entire remains of everything you had left was violently taken away from you? What if the first people you met after that were officials, who ought to have helped you, but they viciously attacked you instead? What if your actual rescuers were wild, heaven-sent strangers, who you knew nothing about, and they knew nothing about you, but they still helped you, unquestioning, so much, and so freely, that even though at first glance you found them impossibly alien, you still couldn't help loving them, almost immediately?"

I remember how safe I felt in Murtagh's arms, and how alive I felt in Jamie's.

"And then, how would you feel, if you discovered the only reason their leader had helped you - your only purpose, your only _use_ to him - was to be spied on, and watched, like some sort of laboratory animal?" I raise my head, not caring if I look as forlorn as I sound, "How would you _feel_ , Dougal?"

He doesn't look at me.

"Wouldn't you fight it? Fight it with tooth and nail and every scrap of Human sanity you had left? _Wouldn't_ you? Wouldn't you just want peace, and quiet, and an ordinary, useful job, and maybe, if you're lucky. . . friends. . . among all the wild, blessed strangers?"

I run out of words, or energy, I don't know which.

He is quiet a very long time. The silence descends around us, full, and waiting.

"Did ye. . ." he starts, then stops, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "Did ye really lose a child?"

I nod. "Yes, I really did."

"How did ye know about Hamish?"

He has used up his three questions, but at this point, there's no reason to deny him the truth. "At the time? I didn't. I only figured it out this afternoon. And I wasn't sure until right now."

"But. . ." his voice hardens again, "Ye said. . ."

"Yes," I shrug, "I was being sincere. I really did have an uncle who loved me as much as a third parent."

"Well. . ." he looks me straight in the eyes, "He does. Colum does. He loves Hamish as his own. What. . . whatever happens between ye an' me. . . dinnae take his child from him."

I've never heard Dougal so earnest.

"T'was all we were tryin' tae do, ye ken. Me and Letty. We wanted tae give Colum a child. Can. . . can ye let that sin alone?"

I sigh. "You may have noticed that Hamish was not part of our negotiations earlier," I shake my head, "A child isn't a bargaining chip, Dougal."

"No' tae ye, maybe. But in politics-"

"I know why your family thinks you aren't cut out for it," I interrupt.

He blinks, and looks at me warily.

"Och, aye?"

"You have too much honour."

He laughs a wry, humourless laugh, "Ye say that, even knowin'. . ."

"You wear dishonour very ill, Dougal Mackenzie. And politics will drain you dry of whatever honour you have, though it be your life's blood."

He stands, and smirks at me, once again the smooth, devious, impenetrable War Chief. I can tell it's still war between us, but it will be noble war this time around. We've made a step or two. He may yet be my ally, eventually. He braces his hands against his belt loops, "I dinnae like ye, Claire Beauchamp. I dinnae trust ye. And I'm no' about tae take life advice from ye." He looks me appraisingly up and down. "But ye'er all right."

He tosses a bunch of keys on the desk, spins on his heel, and is gone before I can respond.


	26. Trucks In A Row

It takes me five solid days of work to get my new office into anything resembling order. The first two days are spent sorting paper - extracting receipts, invoices, reports, and other important records from the almost unbelievable amount of trash. In fact, it takes a good three or four hours for me to fully understand that so much of it _is_ trash, and just how utterly mundane _all_ of it is. I've made a substantial pile of colourful, glossy, fully-printed magazines, scraps of brightly coloured card stock announcing 20% off cattle feed, and a truly astonishing number of offers for a thing called a "business credit card" before I realize that not one of them is important. Then, I look more closely at the tumbled piles of plain white pages, and find expense reports, supply orders, growth projection grids. . . all important things for a working farm, certainly, but. . . _this_ is what is considered worthy of putting on paper here? Advertisements, pictures of flashy cars and barely-dressed women, and. . . _cattle sale receipts_?

I had been expecting such a pile of paper to consist mostly of things like genealogy tables, or cellular scans, biosphere maps, mineralogical surveys, and possibly photographs of unique or noteworthy things the farm has produced over the years. Things to show - things to keep. Things that deserved the paper they were printed on. Things to be _proud of_.

Not. . . last quarter's _water bill_.

I know full well that paper _can_ be used this frivolously - I grew up in Central, after all. I've even seen artists cover _entire walls_ with nothing but paper, much to the delight of all their Central Township friends. Of course, Skycity 15 _does_ produce more than the usual amount of the stuff, given how much insoluble stem, root, and other waste fiber we get out of our farming stations, but nearly 80% of our paper products are varieties of sanitation tissue, and most of the rest goes to packaging, industrial construction, or special-use laboratory applications. Occasionally though, a fiber processing station will do a "fancy" run, making coloured and embossed sheets of display-worthy paper, or the trimmed, smooth sheets of pure white art paper. . . but even the most cavalier of Central Township artists aren't so wasteful as to have their regular _bank statements_ printed on any of it.

Schooling certificates, wedding licenses, awards, official commendations, handwritten poetry, paintings, drawings, memorializing photographs - _these_ are the sorts of things paper is used for, not. . . commercials for sheep manure. If you'd shown me this office two weeks ago, and told me it contained every bit of display and art paper that existed in this hemisphere, I would have believed you. Even one week ago, when Lamb explained paper books to me, it was in the context of having preserved a precious part of Human knowledge and creativity. But here, apparently, paper is also used for tax statements, form letters, full-colour catalogues, and something I later learn is called _junk mail_.

After two days, the single filing cabinet I manage to excavate out of one corner is filled and organized, as are the two large lower drawers of the desk. There are _eleven_ large plastic bags full of the trash, stacked against the wall, ready to be thrown out, or, as I deeply hope, recycled.

And to think - just a few days ago, I got upset when I saw men _cutting down trees_.

This truly is a different world I've landed in. No matter how often I think I'm getting used to it, something new slaps me across the face with how much of an alien I am here.

I spend the third and fourth days in the office organizing the bookshelves and desk. There are an alarming number of tools, hardware, and equipment scattered around that in no way belong in an office space. Test tubes, Ph paper, pots of grease remover cream, spanners, pressure gauges, buckets of tiny metal rivets, unopened packages of power cells, spent power cells, stirring bars, boxes full of beakers and flasks, scalpels, specimen bags, broken parts of who-knows-what machines, piles and piles of copper wiring, and an almost innumerable collection of bottles containing various types of engine coolant, in various states of usefulness.

I shift the lot of it into boxes, stacking them to the side for me to sort through at my leisure. Barring the additional five bags full of trash, of course.

There is naturally a lot less junk on the bookshelves, and I discover that the majority of the books are reference manuals, for which I am deeply grateful. All the vehicles and machines this farm needs to run will most likely be complete mysteries to me, so, actual information is good - very very good.

When I'm done, all that is left on the surface of the desk is a lamp, a small tray filled with all the maps of the local area I could find and a few blueprints of the farm and homestead, and a large, blocky device I think might be a comm radio, though I have no idea if it is even functional, or how to use it if it is.

There's no info-screen. No printer, no scanner, not even a Grafcal Regulator - an absolute essential on every farming station I've ever seen. Not even a Tablyt and stylus for notes. Only graphite pencils, and pads of yellow paper, faintly lined with blue. I'm not surprised, I expected this to be the case, but, I'm still frustrated. Managing a farm of this size will take a lot of organizing, a lot of planning. A lot of recording and projecting and buying and selling. I can't do that without an info-screen. Well. . . I suppose I _can_ \- it will just take a lot more time and effort. And this was already shaping up to be the most difficult job I've ever had.

On the fifth day, I finally find the cameras. I knew from the first it would be too much to ask Dougal to tell me where or how many there were, so I resigned myself to just finding them whenever I happened to come across them. They turn up while I'm dusting. There are three. One painted to look like it was part of the windowsill, one behind a small clear plastic window in the door of the circuit breaker box, and one fitted into the top corner of a bookcase. All three are inactive, and ice cold when I find them. Even on passive mode, they would be a little warm if they'd ever been powered up - which means, I hope, that they have never been active at all. Or at least not recently. . .

I grab a small multi-tool, open them up, and with a few quick snips with wire cutters, permanently disable them. I consider them spoils of war, and feel no inclination to return them to Dougal. I take all three back to my room that night, and put them in the same hiding place I've put the filigree cube, and the now two microphone wires I've found in my room. The second wire was stuck in the hem of the window curtain. I found it three days ago. It's harder to tell if a mic-wire is fully disabled or not, but I've made assurance doubly sure now. . .

I lift the small plastic cup full of greenhouse flowers I've set in the mouth of my steel bottle, and drop the cameras into the clean, dry space left beneath it. Unless you look very closely at the bottle, it's impossible to tell it is holding anything but flowers.

That night, I briefly wonder if it would be safe to stop undressing beneath my nightgown. I decide against it just yet, for two related reasons - first, that I may not have found all the cameras yet, and secondly, who knows if Dougal may try to worm his way out of our deal somehow? Say, by having Angus or Rupert bug my rooms yet again, but without his supervision, and then just _report_ to him. _He_ isn't technically watching me that way, so. . .

Despite the fact that it's possible, I also think it's somewhat improbable. That kind of trick isn't allowed in noble warfare. And Dougal's parting words of "Ye'er all right" were said in the round, comfortable tone that I think is his natural mode of speaking, not in any of his affectations.

It's strange just how much I _want_ to trust Dougal. . .

Or is it? The man _is_ my best chance at peace and safety while I'm here, after all. He's my best shot at finding some small injustices to solve in hopes of improving the future, too.

It isn't much, but those last few seconds with him do indicate sincerity on his part. Also witness that he's left me strictly alone for close to a week now. Granted, that hasn't been too difficult, seeing as I've been taking my meals in the kitchen with the farm hands and house staff, and spending all the rest of my time either in the manager's barn, or here in my room. I've not been anywhere near him or his minions lately.

But until I see either him or the minions again, it's impossible for me to know what they know. So, best to be safe for now.

The next morning, I finally turn my attention to the keys.

Besides the one large key Dougal used to open this office, and the two smaller keys on the same ring with it that I used to open two back rooms my first day here - the small toilet station, and an even smaller break room - I have not had occasion to use any keys on the bunch. And there are at least a score. I quickly count them. Twenty-one, separated onto three smaller rings, not counting the one I've already been using.

Well. Time to explore my new domain.

Besides the outdoor entrance, and the two smaller side rooms, there are two doors leading out of this office. The first leads into a long, glassed-in porch - a greenhouse-looking place I've noticed each morning, but haven't been curious about until now. There are a few narrow workbenches lining the inner wall, and a lot of mostly-empty sprouting trays ranged along the outer glass. A greenhouse indeed. That must mean. . .

The second door leads up a few steps, into the Manager's Barn proper, and it is a great deal more than even I expected.

From what I've learned of Davie Beaton until now, I thought he was the usual type of Farm Manager I've encountered - a bio-chemist, a geneticist, a better than average mechanic, a planner, a listener, a man with both drive and imagination.

I hadn't been expecting an alchemist.

The huge inside of the barn is laid out like a daydream had by a mad scientist from a classic movie. One enormous wall is covered with lab equipment, flasks, beakers, glass tubes - bottles of chemicals, boxes and bags of powders and compounds - all organized on huge shelves, with sliding ladders to reach the uppermost rows. The center of the room is given over to a large quadrangle of soapstone countertops, with water spigots and heating pads dotted in a line down the center of each. There is a space in the middle of each side so the center can be reached, and all manner of chairs and stools have been crowded into the middle of the square. There are several locked drawers and cupboards under the counters, that I soon discover contain the more dangerous of this lab's chemicals. Metallic sodium. Phosphorus stored in oil. A dozen more things I don't currently have time to contemplate. . . I turn about, trying to take in the whole room. The wall I came through is entirely covered in bookshelves stacked with books - on plant genetics, soil chemistry, biome management, etc. etc. etc. - and there are ladders to reach the upper shelves on this wall too. I swoop down on a long shelf filled with nothing but plain tan bound booklets, each labeled with ranges of five years. I flip through one - field history manuals! My heart lifts. I've been looking for these. Now, even without a computer, making a crop plan is at least _possible_.

Beyond the lab counters are ancient versions of machines I nevertheless recognize - purifiers, synthesizers, mappers, scanners, testers, and kilns. There are vats for water, hydroponic testing stations, vacuum chambers, fumigating chambers, and row after row of seed trays on small, wheeled tables.

It's a comprehensive laboratory, even for my time. For two hundred years ago, it's downright _magical_.

A small door off to the front clearly leads to the greenhouse area, and there is a door in the supply wall that leads to a nicely appointed break room/kitchen that also contains a toilet station.

Beyond the greenhouse area, there is a very large roll-up door, that it takes me quite a while to figure out how to open. It isn't exactly locked - eventually I discover that the mechanism used to open it must be activated with a little coin-shaped key slotted into a box on the wall beside the door. Once I figure this out, the door opens with a loud, grating rumble, letting in the cold November air until I figure out how to close it. . .

Clearly a door meant for trucks and tractors to bring supplies and samples to the lab.

That finishes the first subset of keys. The second subset has only two keys on it.

The first one opens a door in the far wall, leading to a room that is the mirror image of the office. The minute I step through, I wonder if Dougal even knows about this place. . .

It is a computer lab.

Many of the machines in the main lab are computers by default, of course, but this room is something else entirely. The main lab is a room made for a modern-day wizard, a man who conjures new life out of mysterious aether. This room is very clearly for someone with a much more practical turn of mind - your basic, yet brilliant, engineer. Computer chips and containers of solder are scattered around the one long workbench that spans the entire room. And on the shelves. . . there are screens, and tubing, and sheeting, and bits and pieces of robot arms, gears and wheels, springs and plastic cases, buttons, lights, switches, power sources, and on and on and on the list could go. From the looks of things, whoever worked here wasn't just tinkering about with farming equipment, they were trying to invent _new_ farming equipment.

Clearly, Davie Beaton was a much more complex person than I've been giving him credit for.

Not just a chemist - a conjuror. Not just a mechanic - an inventor. Not just a man of imagination - a person of brilliance.

Hard shoes to fill indeed.

It takes me a long while to find out what the second key on this ring is for. Eventually, I spot a large lockbox, almost hidden behind wreathes of wiring and scraps of plating, but it is the only thing in this room that requires a key to open. And inside. . .

Inside, there are half a dozen deconstructed info-screens, and at least ten or eleven mid-21st century comm radios.

I stand there, wondering, a million possibilities and small, cautious flare of hope in my mind.

If I can't convince Colum to give me an info-screen, I _might_ be able to cobble together my own.

I lock everything back up and trudge over crisped, newly frozen grass back to the main house. It's close to supper time - I'll have to leave the third group of keys - which I know by now must be to the garage - until tomorrow.

Murtagh is here tonight. I breathe a sigh of relief for a familiar face among the myriad of people around me who are still mostly strangers. I see Mrs. Fitz and Annie almost daily, of course, but only for brief moments, or in passing. Mrs. Fitz has seated Murtagh near the head of the long table, quite near to her, and more than half a dozen seats away from me. But I find him a comforting presence nonetheless. He is far more jovial than I've ever seen him, and he substantially livens up what is usually the most sober and uninteresting meal here in the kitchens.

I find myself smiling, not out of amusement, or from some remembered joy, but out of _present_ happiness. The realization surprises me, and brings home very strongly just how separated I still am here. Not just physically, but mentally. I haven't thought about Murtagh. . . or Jamie. . . in days. It is almost like I have been living an entirely different life with each individual I know here. Dougal. Colum. Angus and Rupert. Annie. Mrs. Fitz. Jamie. And now Murtagh. I am a completely different person in the presence of each one. My smile fades, and my heart sinks. The dissociation is burden enough, but adding in where I'm from - _when_ I'm from. . .

I have no idea how to live just one life here. I don't know how to bridge the pieces of me, so I might spend my time as a solid being, and go home from this adventure whole, and unbroken.

Craigh na Dun has scattered me, like rain across a window. I am cold droplets of myself, crystalline-clear, and yet I can only reflect the sky in fractured, warped miniature. I am stuck, evaporating, not bearing enough weight within myself to move me forward or back, and not significant enough to attract any greater power that might push me into one whole sphere again.

Lamb's words come back to me, that he said on our way home from Culloden.

_I don't mean anyone has to change anything grand, or do anything heroic, or life threatening. . ._

_But any reduction of evil has to be an improvement. . ._

_If there's a chance, just_ _**one** _ _chance._

If only I could see my way towards _any_ chance at all.

Some small injustice to solve. . .

To improve the future, to make things better. . .

To save the world.

My blood runs cold. I pick at my slice of Mrs. Fitz's treacle tart, suddenly losing all interest in food.

When? When did I decide I was going to save the world? When did I think I should? When did I think I was _capable_ of such a thing? I search my memory.

Lamb had been the first one to mention changing the past, and he had brought in specifics, revealing the method, making the idea not just possible, but real. . . and yet the notion itself had begun in my mind the moment I had seen the dark, clean ocean beyond the Safnet screen.

I have known all my life that our world is dying, but that was the first time I knew for _sure_ it wasn't dead yet, not by a long shot. Doomed, maybe. Cursed, even. But there was still hope, however faint. That rich, impossible blue. . . it was _alive_. Just remembering it, I can still feel the awe. It had planted a seed of hope in my mind. And not just hope. Determination.

Our world deserves a chance. _We_ deserve a chance.

Sometime between the future, the past, and the space between seconds, I have come to _believe_ in that, more than I thought I could ever believe in anything.

Our inheritance and our legacy. Our burden and our blessing.

It takes infinite power to do the impossible. . .

And yet, here I am. . .

"Am I interrupting anythin', lassie?"

Murtagh's voice is light, and he sits down next to me without waiting for permission. He knows he's not interrupting. After all, I'm only sitting here, picking listlessly at a now much abused piece of pastry.

I look up, and am surprised at how empty the rest of the room is. I completely missed everyone else leaving, even missed most of the lights being turned off.

"No. Not a thing."

I think I see him smile a bit, but it's hard to tell from behind his beard. "Weel, ye might be the most hands-off and dooer-lookin' boss I've evar had, but I still say ye'er by far the prettiest."

The compliment flies right past me as I repeat the most shocking word Murtagh has ever said in my presence, "Boss? What do you mean, boss?"

He quirks an eyebrow in my direction, "Now, are ye oor are ye no' the new Farm Manager?"

"Yes. . . but. . ."

"An' I'm one of three Sub-Managers. The horses and their grazin' land are my bailiwick. Marc Ferrier is our cattleman - stockman, really, he minds the fowls and pigs too - and Lily Bara is head shepherd. Say ye'ev at least _met_ them?" I nod. They both sit near me at table most mealtimes. "And whoe're is in charge of the arable land is head manager o' the four of us. We've been wonderin' when ye'll be calling yer first weekly meetin'."

I take this in for a minute.

"Oh."

"Did nae'un explain this tae ye?"

"No."

"Weel, Colum does have a lot in hand, but I'd a'thought Dougal would'a put ye in the know by this time."

I smile grimly. "Dougal and I. . . aren't friends, Murtagh."

"Hmf" he grunts a distinctly Scottish noise, "I had a vague suspicion. . ."

I shake my head, "It's taken me this long to clear out the office and survey the lab. I only found the field history manuals this morning. I haven't walked the plots yet. I haven't got a crop plan yet, let alone a rotation projection. I haven't done my usual course of soil chem testing and biome mapping yet. I haven't even opened up the farm vehicle's garage yet."

"D'ye mean tae say ye'ev been sorting through auld Beaton's paperwork this whole time? _Alone_?" his eyes are wide with something between awe and disgust.

"I'm afraid so." I shrug, "Before we have any kind of meeting, I'll need to dig out some sort of computer from somewhere, and at the very least a printer. And the best substitute for a growth graph projector/regulator I can find, if I can at all manage it."

Murtagh's eyebrows get higher and higher with each thing I list, "Did. . . did they no' give ye a computer? Or a printer? Or _helpers_?"

"No," I shake my head again, "Colum said I should have a runner or two until my foot was better, but I'm sure Dougal has been much too busy to remember a little thing like that."

Murtagh doesn't miss the sarcasm in my voice, and I don't miss the flash of complete rage that dashes though his eyes before he can suppress it. He looks expansively around the dim dining room.

"No crutch now, lassie?"

"No, I stopped needing it yesterday."

He nods, looking very grim indeed, "I see."

"It wasn't a bad sprain, just painful. The salve Jamie gave me helped a lot. I should be able to walk the plots in a day or so."

"So ye. . . ye still _want_ tae doo this job then?" he asks, slightly dubious.

"Oh, yes! No question of that," I say, "It's a good deal more than I'm used to, but nothing venture, nothing have, after all."

"After all. . ." he says, abstractedly, running a finger across his chin, his gaze far away from me, "Quite. . ." Then he focuses on me again, and puts out his hand, "Weel, thankee for tellin' me, lassie," he says as I briefly grip his rough palm, "I'll tell Lil and Marc no' tae rush ye." He puts a finger to his forehead in a casual, yet somehow also astonishingly _respectful_ salute, and leaves the room.

I smile, and sigh a little, and then go to bed.

The next morning, I wake up clinging to the edges of a dream. I'm not certain what was happening in it, but I do remember I was on Skycity 15, standing on the topmost observation deck of the Spire, looking out over the pale green ocean. The sun was high and warm, and I was me, whole, unburdened, without any need to hide my identity or my history.

As I groggily change clothes - still underneath my nightgown - my world splinters again, and I am fractured, floating islands of myself, a dozen different Claires, steady enough when focused, but unbearably precarious when I attempt to shift from one part of me to another.

I can feel a slide into depression coming. I desperately want to prevent it, but I don't know how.

I forego breakfast, and skip going to the office altogether, instead making directly for the long, low garage across from the barn. There are five keys left on the key ring that I have not used yet, and they all must belong here.

The first one unlocks a charging/refueling station. The second a washing/detailing chamber. The third a large maintenance area, with two concrete pits for accessing a vehicle's undercarriage. There are worktables full of tools, and shelves full of parts behind the pits. It looks a great deal like the garage I fixed the Rover in, only substantially smaller, of course.

The fourth key unlocks a small entrance next to a long row of large roll-up doors. It is very dark inside - apparently the lights here do not turn on automatically like they do in the neighboring rooms. I grope for a switch. With a small, unimpressive 'click', the lights turn on, and there they are. My fleet. Tractors, harvesters, maintenance vehicles, supply trucks, runabouts, even a tiny fuel tanker. A baker's dozen, all told. Mine to care for and maintain. Mine to send out to work, and to call back. If I cannot easily make friends with the Humans around me, at least I know I'll be well loved by these old soldiers. They've been to war before. They know the drill.

I walk to the nearest tractor, and pat the door handle in greeting. "Hello, old friend," I say, smiling, "I'd know you anywhere."

And maybe it is my overactive imagination, or my empty stomach making me slightly delirious, but I swear, he smiles back.

The fifth key unlocks a small lounge at the end of the garage. Part break room, part secondary office, there is also a toilet station here, and a large, wall-mounted info-screen of a type I have never seen before, and do not know how to operate.

For the final key on the ring, it is something of an anti-climax. For my floating, half-dissociated brain, it is blessedly ordinary. I can see myself spending a good deal of time here, more than in the main office.

There is much less mess here, thankfully. The records are in much less disarray - to the point that I think I'll just let them be, for the moment.

I sit down at the small desk, abstractedly looking over the collection of multi-tools heaped on it.

After the first two days of digging through papers on my own, the thought occurred to me that maybe this was Dougal's first throw in our new warfare - denying me the help I need. My conversation with Murtagh last night has only strengthened this conviction. He's certainly managed to isolate me, at least temporarily. Perhaps too, he was seeing if I would go whining to Colum at the least little inconvenience? He does rather desperately need to know my limits, and how far he can push things with me. . .

My mind tilts sideways, as I try to change from one world to another. Farm Manager Claire is not Warrior Claire, and at the moment, they cannot coexist inside my head. I banish Warrior Claire as quickly as I can, and focus with all my might on being Farm Manager Claire.

I can do this. I can be her. I _am_ her, and no one else.

Bleak emptiness calls to me, promising relief from the noise, the uncertainty, the chaos of my clashing worlds, and offers me a cold, frozen torture that is at least the devil I _know_.

It would be so easy, so, _so_ easy to slip into the abyss. . .

"Mrs. Beauchamp?" calls a voice I don't know, "Mrs. Beauchamp!"

There is a heavy knocking on the office door, "Are ye here, Mrs. Beauchamp?"

"Yes!" I call as loud as I dare, "Just a moment!"

I desperately gather myself together, and wrench open the door. A boy of nineteen, perhaps twenty, is standing there, tentatively grinning, "Ye'er Mrs. Beauchamp?" He sounds very hopeful.

I can't help smiling at this earnest, skinny lad, "Yes. Who's asking?"

He puts out an incredibly eager hand, and shakes mine until my wrist almost splits in two, "Willie Mackenzie, Mrs. Beauchamp!"

"You can call me Claire, Willie," I say, finally extricating myself.

"Alrigh'", he says, inexplicably blushing, "Me 'n Geordie brought ye a computer, and we're tae stay here wi' ye, an' doo what'e're ye need."

I blink. Of all the unexpected. . .

"Oh. . . Okay then," I almost stammer, "I'll. . . come back to the main office then."

Willie chatters volubly every step of the way across the yard. I don't hear a word of it.

Have I misjudged Dougal? What is this? Who are these people?

I clamp down on myself as I feel my brain start to tilt sideways again.

Back in the main office, a man about my own age, black-haired and clean-shaven, is sitting behind my desk, setting up a computer, a printer, and an overhead projector. When he sees us, he stands, and leans over to shake my hand. "How d'ye do?"

"Much better now you're here, thank you," I say, desperately trying to mean it.

"What can I do?" says Willie, eagerly.

I gesture at the pile of trash bags, "Well, for starters, you can shift those. And then you can start going through those boxes over there," I point at the jumbled mess of things I removed from in and around the desk, "And put everything that looks like it belongs in the lab, in the lab, and everything that looks like it belongs in the garage, in the garage. Alright?"

"Ye got it!" he crows, ridiculously happy to be given work.

I shake my head a little, and turn back to the older man, "May I ask your name?"

He nods, "Geordie Mackenzie, Mrs. Beauchamp."

"She says we c'n call her Claire!" shouts Willie from behind a bag of trash.

Geordie half-smiles, holding back a grin at his young companion's enthusiasm, "Is tha' so?" he looks at me.

"It is," I say, kindly, "Please call me Claire. If we're to be working together, I'd much prefer it."

"Jus' as ye like," he points to the computer he's tapping away at, "I've jus' got it hooked up tae th'international network. D'ye wan'tae see?"

I walk around and stand behind the desk chair, getting a good look at this new info-screen. Well. . . "new" is stretching it quite a bit. It's an old thing, four or five centimeters thick, and activated by cursor tracking, not by touch screen. It uses an OS I'm not at all familiar with.

"Hm," I say, vaguely, "It's going to take me a while to get used to. . ."

Geordie grins, "Aye, it's an auld clunker, but still good, ye ken?"

"Oh, I ken just fine." And I do. There's a lot to think about here. But not now. Later - when I _can_ think.

"Will you do the searching for me, Geordie? At least until I figure it partway out?"

"Gladly, Claire," he says cheerfully, "What d'ye need?"

"Well, what I need right now is any kind of general crop regulator with an adjustable algorithm."

"Right."

He types and clicks, easily navigating the buttons and icons that are so unfamiliar to me.

"Heer ye are," he says at last, "Crop regulators. There's half a dozen types. Which one were ye thinkin'?"

I scan down the list, finding one that seems vaguely familiar, "Let's try that one."

"Right," he opens a new window, "Order it, shall I?"

Part of my brain catches up with the situation, and I remember who I am, and the things a Farm Manager does. . .

"Is there a rental tryout option?"

"Aye," he says, sounding surprised, "How aboot that? Ye can rent the thing, for three months at a time."

"Right, let's do that."

"How many sensors do ye reckon tae get wi' it?"

Sensors? _All_ of the sensors. . . _every_ tray is linked in to the sensor grid. . . But no, that's hydroponics. Soil farming is different, so, _so_ different. . .

"Uhhmmm. I don't know. What does the site recommend?"

"Two per square meter."

"Right, well, then let's start with that, in one test field of a quarter hectare."

"Righty-oo," says Geordie.

The room falls silent, save for Geordie's tapping, and Willie's rapid walking back and forth.

I am more than a bit surprised by these two. Not just what they are, but who they aren't. I had been half-expecting Rupert or Angus to be one of my "helpers", if Dougal ever condescended to remember I needed help at all. _Stop overthinking it, Beauchamp! Right now!_ I clamp down on myself again. I am Claire Beauchamp, Farm Manager. That's who I am. That's _all_ I am.

"Right, then I'll leave you two to do. . . your things, and. . . I'm going to work in the garage today, so. . . that's where I'll be if you need me."

They give a cheery "Alright!" and "Okay!", and go back to the tasks I've given them.

Less than five minutes later, I'm shoulder-deep in one of the maintenance truck's combustion engines. Engines make sense. Engines have problems that can be fixed. Engines have parts that fit together.

I've never seen this exact type of combustion engine before. It's gloriously easy to focus on learning it, all its parts and how it functions. Wheels and gears, pistons and spark plugs, grease and tubes and filters. It's all blessedly tactile. Present. Real.

Not a yawning, gaping hole of a life, its bare remains currently scattered into crumbling, shifting piles of dirt. . .

No. Don't go there, Beauchamp. Washers and bolts. Seals and cylinders. Fuel injectors and coolant and catalytic converters. Focus.

I have the thing more than half disassembled before I've put myself even partially back together.

I've left a side door open for air circulation, even though it is far colder than I find comfortable. At least the temperature is keeping me awake. . .

A moving shadow falls across the rectangle of air and light.

"An' sae how are things goin' fer ye, lassie?" says a voice I remember.

I turn, and there are Rupert and Angus, smirking, sleazy, utterly unsophisticated, Rupert's seemingly innocent question somehow laced with such slimy implications that I sneer, and do not answer. They take a step or two inside before saying anything more, and when they do, I do not listen.

Because behind them, ducking to get through the low door, is Jamie. Tall, resplendent, gorgeous. Superior. _So_ much better than me. . .

He looks at me and smiles, so _easy_ , so innocent, so boyish, and. . . perfect.

All at once my worlds crash into each other, and I am a trembling, incoherent mess, but somehow, I am also one whole being again. . .


	27. The Way In

"Aye, I doo like tae see a lass unafraid tae get her hands dirty," says Rupert, looking over my half-dismembered truck engine with an insultingly proprietary expression, "'Specially a fine, fine quality lassie."

Angus laughs, and Rupert smirks, both of them going to lean indolently against the nearby workbench. It does not escape me that from that angle, they have an excellent view of my rear end. . .

I make two fists inside the engine cavity. I may be back inside my own head, my disastrous slide into dissociative nihilism at least temporarily averted, but my wits are still scattered yet, and I have less than zero energy to be dealing with the Ruperts and Anguses of the world. My empty stomach twists in disgust, and I stare silently at Jamie, begging him with my eyes to get me out of here. He meets my look for a moment, and gives me the tiniest of nods.

"An' how d'ye ken that, Rupe?" he says, still looking at me, " _ **I**_ ken Claire'll be th'furst time ye'ev seen one." He rounds on him, sharply, "A'least in _person_."

"Well, is'nae _that_ th'pot callin' th'kettle black!"

"That's _Mac_ Dubh tae _ye_ , Rupe."

Rupert scoffs, "Ye great _arse_ _\- fine_ \- but d'ye _really_ think _**I**_ hav neva-"

"Aye, an' jus' _what_ woman of quality would evar hev ye?"

"Oh, gi' off yer high hoarse, Jam," says Angus, "Ee's no' as if-"

Jamie has distracted them perfectly. . . I deliberately drop my spanner and multi-tool. They land on the concrete with a loud clatter. I jerk my hands out of the engine, and grip the knuckles of one hand with the other, hissing in pain. To my own surprise, I don't have to fake the pain. At some point in the last hour or so, I've scraped my knuckles raw. I've only just now noticed.

" _Now_ look what ye'ev dun," says Angus, to _me_ , somewhat to my shock, "Now _wheer_ did auld Beaton keep the bandages?" He pokes ineffectually at a shelf or two before Jamie interrupts him.

"He _nevar_ kept a good first aid kit heer. I'll see tae her." He gestures to me, "C'mon, Sassenach."

"Haud oon a tick," says Angus, "Ye cannae jus' _leave_."

"Why no'?"

"'Cause Himself stationed us heer taeday tae mek shure she doesnae git in trouble!" says Rupert, heaving himself onto a workbench stool.

Jamie crosses his arms, "Aye, and a fine job ye'er makin' o' _that_. Exactly _what_ trouble are ye thinkin' shee'll be gittin' in wi' me?"

Rupert blinks, and rapidly glances in between Jamie and me, suddenly rendered quite speechless.

"Aye, tha's what I thought," Jamie turns to me, managing to look concerned and annoyed at the same time, "Hev ye had lunch?"

"I haven't had _breakfast_."

"There ye are then," he says to both of them, "She's on her lunch break. If she spends it wi' me an' bottle o' antiseptic, tha's no' business o' yers."

"An' jus' what are we s'posed tae doo in the meantime?" says Rupert, quickly recovering his voice.

Jamie looks at me, significantly.

"Uhm. . ." I mumble, unprepared for any of this, "I guess you can help Willie shift the trash bags from the office. Maybe. . . help Geordie find a recycling service that takes glossy paper?"

Rupert nods, then looks up, slack jawed, eyes wide, comically appalled, "Ye arenae throwin' oot Beatons auld magazines?"

"Of course I am. What do I need with two hundredweight of pictures of half-dressed models draped over old ca-"

He launches himself off the stool, and is out of the garage and halfway across the yard before I can finish the word. Angus rolls his eyes, sighs a little, and goes after him, cursing softly the entire way.

When they're both gone, Jamie looks at me, smiling tightly, "Dinnae look a gift horse in the mouth, Sassenach." He grabs a jar of skin-degreaser and a large handful of cotton rags, and promptly escorts me to the runabout he has parked in the yard.

The house is a good two hundred meters, and the width of at least three fields behind us, before either of us says anything.

"Are ye much hurt?" says Jamie, quietly.

"It's just scraped knuckles, they'll be fine," I say, my voice much shorter and harsher than I mean it to be.

He looks at me, all gentle concern, "That isnae what I. . . I mean, ye. . . ye shouldnae be skipping meals, ye ken. . ."

"I've gone without before. It's not a problem." I grip my knuckles tighter, and clamp my teeth together. Any more of his caring tenderness, and he's going to make me cry. . .

He shakes his head, "Ye _are_ contrary today, I see."

"I have to be, Jamie," I say, my voice catching in my throat, "Or I'll fall apart. . ."

His expression darkens, and his mouth works, but he doesn't look at me.

"It's no' much further."

There's a double-wide roadway in between the arable fields and the grass lands, bordered by stone fences and two overgrown ditches. We cross this, and go two, three field-lengths into the grazing land before pulling up in front of a small, two-room cottage. I can just see the horse stables and barn off to my right as I get out of the runabout.

The cottage is made of stone, its low, thatched roof coloured grey, its diamond-pane windows warped and greenish with age.

It is a place direct from all manner of fairy tales - from the sweetly romantic, to the murderous and terrifying. For a second, I don't know which one to expect. . .

"D'ye like my workshop?" asks Jamie, gently taking my elbow and guiding me past the gate. A carved wooden nameplate swings and clatters as he closes the gate behind us.

"Hotel California?" I say, "What am I supposed to think of that?"

I've always been good at historic geography - yet another talent my father did not approve of - so I know that California used to be on the western coast of the northern half of what is now the Western Hemispheric Landmass, for whatever that's worth, but, why the Hotel part, if this cottage is his workshop?

"Ye can think the truth. It's my favorite Eagles' song, Sassenach," he says, eyes twinkling.

"Oh," I say, noncommittally, as he hands me into the small lounge area, "You'll have to let me hear it sometime, then."

He rolls up his sleeves, and leads me to a washing basin, handing me the rags and pot of skin-degreaser. "Ye'ev never heard Hotel California?"

I fill the basin, and begin to scrub my arms, "Not that I can recall. Maybe I have, I just don't remember it."

I can hardly tell him that I barely know what an eagle is, let alone who the Eagles are. . . if they _are_ anyone, but it sounded like he was speaking of a group of musicians. . . and as for a knowing a singular song of theirs. . .

"Weel, ye'ev not heard it, then. It's no' a song tae be forgot." He hands me a towel.

"Oh. Sorry," I say, patting my arms dry. I present my hand to him, the knuckles torn, my skin raw, but the bleeding has stopped.

He gestures me to a couch. We sit side by side, and he dabs on some antiseptic with a pad of cotton, then ties a long, clean strip of cloth around my hand, swathing my hurts from sight.

"It's no' a surprise, really. The album is a hundred years old."

"Oh? A classic, then."

"Aye. Tae be sure."

We run out of words to say, even these superficial, meaningless ones, whose only purpose is to fill the space between us with noise.

In the silence, even that barrier is denied me.

I am presented to him, raw, and torn, sick at heart, with nowhere else to go.

"Jamie?" I say, my voice very quiet and small.

"Aye?"

"Can. . . will you hold me?"

"Aye. A'coorse."

He opens his arms, and I go into them, leaning my head on the solid bulk of his chest, as his arms go around me, holding me close.

My tears don't explode or burst out of me, rather the weight of life presses on my heart, and overflows into my eyes. From within his safe enclosure, I can empty myself, break in half and bleed out the pain, fear and hurt. I can strip away the wrongness, the hate and suspicion. I can gasp and shake, fill with sorrow, and empty myself again.

It seems an age, as crying always does. But it is probably only a few minutes. I am calming down when I realize Jamie has been murmuring things to me the whole time, soft words, but intense, in a language I can't understand, his lips nuzzling into my hair as he repeats them over and over, like prayer.

" _Tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn, mo Sorcha, na caoin, mas, e do thoil e, mo chridhe, tha gaol agam ort_. . ."

I lift my head, sniffling, eyes streaming, and meet his deeply concerned blue gaze.

"Ha-gool ak. . . akham erst?" my voice is slow and thick with crying, and I stumble over the unfamiliar sounds, "What does that mean?"

A tiny smile twitches for a second in the corner of his mouth. He reaches to a side table, and brings back a packet of facial tissue that he tucks into my hand,

"I'll. . . tell ye one day, Sassenach. No' now."

I pull out of his arms, blow my nose, and wipe my eyes.

"I cried all over your shirt. I'm sorry."

He looks down at the dark blotches on the blue flannel, "Dinnae fash. I'll wear them. Proud tae. Like war medals."

I blink, and sniffle a bit, not knowing what to say to that.

"Now. Do I need tae kill Rupert for making ye cry?"

He's teasing me, and suddenly, I want to kiss him for it.

"No." I smile, and shake my head, "No. He. . . he didn't. He was just the last small thing in a long line of small - and big - things. I couldn't handle any more, is all."

"I think. . . he may like ye. Angus too."

"I'm almost certain they do. But they understand less than nothing about me."

"Aye, that's true enough."

He stands, and goes over to a small refrigeration unit. He extracts a large, paper-wrapped sandwich, and a bottle of water, comes back to the couch, and sets them on the low table in front of me.

"Ye must be hungry. Hev some lunch, Sassenach."

"But. . . I can't take _your_ lunch!"

He laughs, and goes back to the refrigeration unit, opening the door wide, showing off two similar sandwiches, a container of potato salad, a container of fried mushrooms, and a glass pot full of at least a liter or two of stew.

"Mrs. Fitz feeds me like I'm still seventeen, a nighean. The mushrooms and lamb stew are from yesterday, the tattie salad from two days ago. Ye arenae takin' any food out o' my mouth, rest assured. It'll most like go tae the pigs if ye dinnae eat it."

He brings the salad and another sandwich back with him, sitting next to me companionably.

"Soo, I may take it yer audience wi' Colum was. . . complicated?"

I've just taken a bite of my sandwich, so all I can do is nod, and chuckle a bit. "That's an understatement!" I say, as soon as I can swallow, "So, _so_ many things have happened since I got here, Jamie! Strange things, things I don't understand, things I understand all too well. . ."

"Weel, ye dinnae have tae talk about any of it if ye dinnae care tae."

"But I _do_ ," I say, fervently, "I want to tell you as much as I can."

And I do. But there _are_ things I can't tell him, and things I _won't_ tell him, and things I have no idea _how_ to tell him. . .

"I guess the best place to begin is really when I hacked into Angus and Rupert's chat-app. . ."

"Ye told about that last time we talked. Is there more?"

"More than I said then, yes."

I can't tell him what I did in my Shadow windows, but I do tell him a lot more about what Angus and Rupert said, how they discovered the cameras were out, and how they reacted to my throwing a spanner in the works. He laughs when I tell him about taunting them on their transparent code names.

"Now I'm _certain_ Rupert likes ye!"

"What?. . . Why?"

"Witchy Woman is _his_ favorite Eagles' song, ye ken."

I blink, and unwrap the second half of my sandwich, "But, that would mean. . ."

"Aye, that he liked ye already, then," he takes a bite of potato salad, contemplatively, "He probably lost it the day ye fixed the Rover. I cannae blame him - ye were magnificent that day, Sassenach."

I snort. "Hardly that."

"Aye, that an' more. Brave _and_ bonny. Smart _and_ sassy," I laugh at his deliberate choice of words, "Needin' all our help, but no' taking _any_ shite. Ye'ev moar steel in yer spine than a dirk, that ye have. I cannae blame any of 'em for being impressed, Dougal, Murtagh an' all. In fact, I cannae blame _anyone_ if they fall arse over teakettle for ye the first time they lay eyes on ye."

Something in his voice brings me up short. The implications of that. . .

But no. Surely not. . .

"Well. Go on then," he says, quietly.

"Well. You know about how badly I mucked up supper that night. . ."

It's his turn to snort, "Ye mean when ye endured a lot o' pointed questions by twa grumpy auld men whoo dinnae ken ye, tae th'point that ye snapped at one o' them fer his foolishness? Agch."

His deeply disgusted grunt makes me smile, and I wonder, is there anything more about supper that night I can, or should, tell him? I won't mention anything about Hamish, I can't talk about my suspicions regarding Culloden, and does he really need to know I'm from Oxford, or why I taunted Dougal with the word Boston?

Although, that does remind me. . .

"Jamie? Do I sound American?"

He sits up straight at that, surprised at the question, "No' tae me, ye don't. I've nevar heard any'un speak quite like ye do, aye, but ye'er English, plain as plain. These days, with movies and technology - unless someone _tries_ tae keep an accent, who knows where they're from? I met a lad from Guernsey once, born and bred there he was, and sounded German. Why? He had a cousin lived in Dresden, an' they were always talkin', video-chatting and such, while they were growing up. An' he said his cousin ended up speakin' French wi' a Guernsey accent." He shrugs, finishes the potato salad, and wipes his mouth, "Ye'ev a flat vowel oor two, and a right sharp cadence tae ye - and ye'ev a bit of an odd vocabulary. . . Och, but ye'er English, ceartainly. Whoo's been sayin' otherwise?"

"Colum. That first night, he said I sounded American."

"He might have been trying tae get a rise out of ye, Sassenach," he says, seriously, "He's been known tae do that tae people he doesnae trust."

I sigh, "And with Dougal there, no extra points for guessing why _that_ was. . ."

"Aye, Dougal. . . did ought come of the cameras an' all?"

I bark a laugh, "Oh boy, you don't even _know_. . ."

I tell him about my meeting with Colum, all the things I'd said about myself, and how he'd offered me a job. Jamie nods along, surprised by none of it. . . until I tell him about the filigree camera cube. Then his jaw drops open, and he stares hard at the wall.

I still go on, carefully editing my encounter with Dougal so I leave out anything to do with Hamish or Culloden, winding up with Dougal tossing me the bunch of keys, and leaving me so strictly alone after that, he didn't even tell me there were three Sub-managers expecting me to have weekly meetings.

I stop, and silence falls again.

Eventually, he clamps his mouth closed, and goes through eight or nine uninterpretable facial expressions as he absorbs all I've told him.

"Ye really said all that tae Dougal?" he asks, slightly incredulous.

I can't blame him for feeling that way. I'm a bit incredulous myself, thinking back on it.

"Yes, I really did."

"Weel, I kent ye had baws, but *wheew*," he whistles, "Gi' ye a weapon and ye'er _deadly_ , Sassenach. Remind me tae stay on yer good side, aye?"

I lean closer to him, lower my voice, and purr, "Stay on my good side, James Fraser."

He quickly crushes his sandwich wrapper, and throws it on the low table. He narrows his eyes at me.

I just smile.

"I bet that jab about if he breaks his word tae ye, you'd be able tae hold bein' a traitor over him is rankling somethin' fierce. If that doesnae shame him inta leavin' ye be, I dinnae ken what would."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because he already betrayed ye by spying on ye in the first place, and as for that camera ye found in Colum's office. . ."

He stares hard at the wall again, a lot very clearly going on in his mind, but what, I am uncertain.

"What about it?"

"Weel, I kent Dougal was after bein' Chieftain, but I didnae ken it'd gone as far as that," he scratches the back of his neck, "I'd always supposed that's what his candidacy for the Independent Scottish Council was about, ye ken, oor mostly, a'least. But nae, there must be moor tae it than just that, now. Ye kept the camera, aye?"

I nod.

"Good. Dinnae lose it." His brow knits up with hard thinking again, but then he shakes his head, decisively, "It doesnae matter, no' at the moment, anyway. Moor importantly - how are ye, Sassenach? Settlin' in at all, now that Murtagh's boys are helpin' ye?"

A light dawns, "Oh, _Murtagh_ sent Willie and Geordie!"

"Aye," he grins, "An' he sent ye his auld clunker of a backup computer. If ye need tae doo something it cannae handle, ye can always come here and use mine, ye ken," he gestures at the desk in the corner, "Filling auld Beaton's shoos will be tough enough, nae doubt, without a slowpoke of a computer gettin' in yer way."

"Thanks, Jamie," I say, content. My stomach is full, and I'm sipping on the water, my lurching sick feelings entirely soothed. "I already was settling in a bit, I guess. I just. . . well. . ."

"Aye?"

"Well, I still feel like I'm living a half-dozen different lives here, you see. A different set of things to be and do with each individual person. I feel. . . fractured. I was sliding into a dissociative episode this morning - that's why I skipped breakfast - and I used dismantling the truck engine to ground myself. That's why Rupert and Angus being their normal selves was too much for me."

"I see," he looks slightly abashed, "An' I-"

" _You_ were wonderful, James Fraser," I say, running my bandaged hand up and down his arm, "I don't know why it's so easy for me to be around you, and so difficult for me to be around so many of the other people here, but, that's what I'm dealing with right now. . ."

"Agch - ye just need tae spend some moor time wi' the lot o' us. Socially, ye ken."

I roll my eyes, "Oh, sure. _That_ should be easy. . ."

He ignores my sarcasm, "Weel, the Cuckoos In The Grove are due here in the next few days. This Friday night, they'll give a big welcome back concert, an' if ye-"

"Wait. Back up. The who in the what?"

"The Cuckoos In The Grove. Colum's personal band."

"Band? He has a band?"

"Aye, he sponsored them before they got a record label. They spend a few months touring every year, but they always keep the winter free, and spend a month or two here. They bring their families, make a real vacation of it. Not that Colum doesnae work them while they're here, a'course. This year they'll be here though Hogmanay."

"Oh. Interesting. Will there be many hogs?"

He laughs, a joyous crowing shout I'm shocked I've never heard him use before, "Nae, Sassenach. One, perhaps. But the point is tha' there will be a concert here on Friday, with the lot of us there. When the Cuckoos are here, all manner of people come in from Cranesmuir too - it'd be a perfect time fer ye tae get tae know people, ye ken. An' if ye sit wi' me, dance wi' me, I'll be there tae make sure they're good tae ye. . ." He trails off, blushing bright red.

"James Fraser, are you asking me on a _date_?"

"Seems I am. Will ye?"

I smile, "Seems I will," I run a finger along the collar of his shirt, "Tell me about this concert, though. Will there be food?"

He nods, "Aye, and drink. They say the way inta a man's heart is through his wame, but the way inta any _Scottish_ heart is wi' whisky, so there'll be pizza, and buffalo wings, and loaded potatoes, and lamb stew, and every kind and colour of whisky."

I want to ask what pizza is, and what buffalo wings are, and what you have to do to a potato to make it "loaded", but he mentioned them all so casually, I can't think of a way to ask without sounding unbearably strange about it. Instead, I fall back on the one thing I know for sure.

"Mmm, sounds amazing. I haven't had whisky in _ages_."

He rounds on me, almost more shocked than when he heard about the camera in Colum's office.

"D'ye _seriously_ mean tae tell me ye'ev been here a _week_ and _nae'un_ has offered ye a dram?"

I shake my head. "Nope."

He jumps up, making several Scottish noises and muttering a long string of what I assume are curses, but they must all be in Gaelic, for I can't understand any of them.

He returns with a bottle, and two cut crystal glasses, all three of which he plunks down between us on the low table.

I read the label out loud, "Lallybroch, 20 Year Reserve."

"Aye. It means Drunken Tower," he says, pouring a small amount for each of us.

"An appropriate name then."

"Aye," he hands me one of the glasses, and taps it with his, "Slàinte mhath."

I take a sip before attempting to say the salute. It's earthy and smoky and rich and intoxicating and everything whisky should be. In seconds, it warms me down to my toes. I lick my lips and try to repeat what he said. "Shlan. . . gevah?"

It's a good thing he has swallowed by then, because the roar of laughter he gives at my attempt would surely have sprayed that good whisky all down his front. He sits there and laughs for several minutes, breaking out afresh every time he looks at me, shaking with a humour I don't quite get, but certainly appreciate.

Seeing someone I care about this happy is almost as good as being that happy myself.

"Dinnae fash, Sassenach, we'll have ye speaking the Gàidhlig in nae time at all," he says, finally getting himself mostly under control.

"And by "no time", I assume you mean. . . fifty years?"

"Aye, if that's what it takes. . ."

He takes another long sip, finishing the portion he poured himself. He puts his glass down, and turns to me, eyes roving over my face before he lifts one errant curl, and gently tucks it behind my ear.

"Claire. . . May I kiss ye?"

"I thought you'd _never_ ask. . ."

I quickly finish my whisky, slap the empty glass on the low table, and wrap my arms around his neck to draw him closer. Only, he holds back, kissing me, but far too gently, too carefully, as though he is afraid of breaking me.

Which, now I think of it, he could easily do. Physically, mentally. . . He could smash me into flinders with a look, with a word, with one blow from those tough, sinewy hands he has braced on either side of my hips. . .

But, it's no use me being anything but vulnerable with him while he's still wearing the shirt stained with my tears - tears I shed after those same frighteningly strong hands, so far from doing me any harm, cleansed and bound up my wounds. . .

He delicately kisses the tip of my nose, and then, much to my confusion, pulls away entirely. He sighs deeply, turning to the low table, beginning to gather up the remnants of our lunch.

My mouth still tingles with his too-light kisses - kisses that have left me unsatisfied, worried. . .

"What's wrong, Jamie?"

He looks at me halfway, and blinks several times, "Noth-"

"And don't say nothing. C'mon, Jamie. You're no tentative boy - you asked to kiss me. And it's not like we haven't made out before. Now what kind of kisses were those?"

His jaw tightens, and he looks down at the papers in his hands.

"Ye. . . ye dinnae ken what it takes, Claire. How _much_ it takes. Tae kiss ye, an' no' touch ye. This time I couldnae. . . no' without. . ." He flushes a rosy, delightful pink.

My worry collapses, and my heart warms, "Oh. Is _that_ it?"

"Aye. Tha's it. But ye asked me tae be patient, and patient I'll be, even if. . ." he gives me a quick, businesslike kiss on the forehead, "Even if it means denying us both, sometimes."

I knock the sandwich wrappers and used napkins from his fingers, take his wrists, and deliberately place one of his hands on the back of my head, and the other on the middle of my back. "Touch me, then," I say, fiercely, "Just. . . don't wander too far yet. Understand?"

He looks at me with a sort of reverent wonder, his fingers tightening in my hair and on my spine, then softening, and stroking gently.

"Aye, message received, Sassenach."

He still doesn't lean into me right away, and when he does finally draw my mouth to his, sliding one hand slowly up my back, pressing me to him, it's not to kiss me just yet. Instead he whispers against my lips, "D'ye ken what I've been dreamin' of since ye got here?"

I shake my head, running my nose along the stubble on his upper lip.

"Feelin' ye tremble against me again. Only no' in fear. Oor sadness. Oor pain. . ."

 _Finally_ he slants his mouth over mine, and kisses me like I'm cold water on a hot day, drinking deep and sure and breathless. When we break apart, I indulge in what _I_ have been dreaming about since I got here, and bury my face behind his ear, nuzzling into him, breathing deeply, luxuriating in the scent of him.

"Mmm. You work in a _stable_ , Jamie. With _animals_. How on _earth_ do you smell so _good_?"

I feel him smile against my neck, "Come an' see."

He takes my hand, and leads me into the other room of his workshop.

This is the larger room by far, square, and bright with whitewash. Bunches of dried herbs hang from every available space - marjoram, and mint, rosemary, dill, coltsfoot, summer savory, and dozens and dozens more things I might well recognize, but don't have time to take in, because the rich, spicy, overwhelming scent of the room is more intoxicating than the whisky. It is Autumn and Spring, blent with the riot of Summer, and mellowed with the cold air into a magical, seductive elixir. I cannot say anything, I merely sit on a stool at one of the workbenches, and _breathe_ , filling my lungs again and again with the wild, odorous gamut.

I've dreamt of having a workshop like this. Of being surrounded by herbal sweetness, and the thrilling variety of things grown in soil. . .

Jamie crouches nearby, rummaging in a cupboard. He places three bottles in quick succession next to me, one large, and two small.

"There ye are. My secret weapons against horse manure." He points at the smaller bottles, "Erry'un likes this scent - can't keep it in stock. Ye'er lucky I just brewed some."

I pick up the little bottles and read the two identical hand-inked labels. "Soapwort, and Wintergreen. But. . . I have some of this in my rooms!"

"Aye, I noo, Sassenach. I make all the soaps and lotions for the guest rooms at Leoch. Mrs. Fitz comes tae me for her kitchen herbs, and ye _may_ have noticed I'm something by way of being a doctor - tae both animals and humans, as the need arises."

I smile softly, "So _this_ is where you learned to take care of a sprained ankle so well. . ."

"One o' th'places, aye."

"Do you know, I think I prefer your workshop to mine?"

"What? With that great lab o' yours, with the magic of it at yer finger-ends? An' every field, far as the eyes can see, yers, jus' waiting fer ye tae smile on them, tae make them green and beautiful? Nae, Sassenach, this is my wee corner o' the world - one cottage, one field, one life. 'Tis a cage as much as a refuge. And ye. . . ye'er _made_ fer the sun, and the free air, the earth beneath yer feet and the sky open above ye. . ."

He stops abruptly, turning to fiddle with something on a different work table, full of some emotion I am at a loss to explain, and cannot understand.

Letting him be, I take up the larger bottle. It bears a similar label, hand-inked in a similar way, only this time it reads "Secret Shampoo: Formula 29". I open the cap, and take a sniff.

Even in the midst of the deep sweetness of this workshop, the scent of this shampoo stands out. Sharp, clear, cold, warm and soft all at once, sweet and savoury, intense and mellow, somehow everything and nothing recognizably specific has gone into it. It's heady, and to me, utterly perfect.

"Why are you giving me love potions, Jamie?" I ask, teasingly.

He turns, seeing me re-cap the bottle, "Och, ye like it then?"

"Like it? It smells like _you_. I can't wait to try it."

I pause, suddenly struck with the implications of _covering myself with the scent of him_ , but I push forward, hoping he doesn't notice my brief stutter, "B-but that doesn't answer the question, you alchemist. Why are you giving me these magic brews? What are you trying to prove?"

"Not a thing, Sassenach. There's nary a drop o' magic in the lot. Jus' herbs." He goes and looks out one of the little diamond-pane windows, "But there _are_ a fair number o' those, and strong ones too. I wouldnae recommend ye get it near yer. . ." He stops, and blushes again, his ears turning quite, quite red.

I grin, and have mercy on him, "Near my. . . eyes?"

He nods in relief, "Aye, those either. And dinnae drink it."

I give a mock gasp, "Don't _drink_ it? Then how am I supposed to _use_ this love potion, hm? Why kind of alchemist _are_ you?"

He sighs, half bemused, half entertained by our banter, "An alchemist turns lead inta gold, Sassenach. Yer eyes are already that - and better, since they're alive. Ye dinnae need my potions. Ye dinnae need _any_ magic but the light that flashes from ye when ye smile."

I suddenly realize that Friday is _days_ away. I'm going to have to leave here soon, get back to my own job, and I can't stand the thought of not seeing him for all those hours, all those _minutes_.

"Jamie, will you walk the plots with me tomorrow? I could use a tour guide who is well-versed in local botany. To help me make a biome map, you know."

He gives me his devastating half-smirk, "Why, Mrs. Beauchamp. Are ye askin' me on a _date_?"

"Seems I am," I look over at him slowly, beseechingly, using every soft wile I possess, just to see how he'll react. "Will you?", I whisper.

His eyes have gone black, pupils blown so wide all that remains are narrow rings of electric blue, burning like twin suns in eclipse. In one long stride he's back next to me, as if he never left my side.

"Seems I will."

He tangles the fingers of both hands in the hair behind my ears, and with his thumbs, traces the edges of my mouth. It's exactly the caress Frank used to give me, right before he would. . .

Then Jamie's mouth is on mine, hot and hard, demanding entrance, melting me, _dissolving_ me, driving me mad and keeping me sane all at once. His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling my head back as he works relentlessly down my neck, scraping me with his stubble, nipping, licking, _sucking_. He's bitten a delightfully stinging bruise onto my collarbone when he suddenly stops, stepping away from me entirely.

This time, I understand _exactly_ why.

It takes us both a minute or two to compose ourselves.

"I'll meet ye in front of the Manager's barn taemorrow mornin'. Half-past seven." His words are slightly rushed, his tone one of mild detachment. Hearing the words in isolation, it might seem as if he were indifferent to me now, or even bored, but the look he gives me with them puts the lie to both.

Even without the look, I understand this too. He needs a little distance sometimes. A clean space around himself. He may have monumental self-control, but there are still parts of him I'm not allowed to see, not allowed to experience yet. He let me get too close there for a minute. Too near to a room in his heart where he'd accidentally left the door open. He has to close it on me now, before I knock something over.

He's been careful not to break me, and respectful of my limits. In the middle of enjoying him, I briefly forgot that he is Human, and just as breakable, with just as many hard limits. I've remembered now. I won't forget again.

He has yet to be nearly as vulnerable with me as I've been with him, but then, I haven't earned it yet.

Something in me _wants_ to earn it. To win his trust. To be _worthy_ of it.

I don't know how he's done it, but this man I barely know, whose history I haven't heard, whose life I do not understand, has earned not only my trust, but my loyalty, and my respect.

I want to _honour_ him.

It's a strange sensation, especially with the marks from his mouth still throbbing on my neck.

"Sounds good. Count on it," I say, bustling about, gathering up the bottles he's given me, and going to get the remains of the pot of skin-degreaser.

When I come back, he's standing in the doorway between rooms, watching me with a pale, detached expression, and a strange, inexplicable pain buried deep in his eyes. I kiss the fingertips of my injured hand, and run them lightly over his jaw and chin, "Half-past seven, tomorrow morning, in front of my office. I'll be there."

Without a word, he drives me back to the Manager's barn, where four _very_ different examples of men await me. . .

It's only hours later, while I'm changing for bed, that I realize Jamie also managed to drive all thoughts of Frank from my mind.

I turn off the light, slip under the covers, and wonder if I should feel at all guilty about that. . . and what it means if I don't.

Because I don't.

I sigh, as two different aches rise up in my heart, warring for dominance. One, a longing for what is gone, and the other a desire for what surely can never be. Tears start into my eyes, different tears than I cried on Jamie this afternoon - tears I can never, ever cry in the presence of someone else. These are the tears I cry when for no reason, my heart is lonely, when my mind cannot fulfill the needs of my soul, when parts of me become so vast, and so empty, so barren that no one can reach me when I'm in the center of them.

I felt this way sometimes, even when Frank was alive.

He called it my "cloud mood". Times when I would turn to mist and wind, he said, as unreachable as the stars.

The only way out is for me to be alone, and to cry, private, singular tears that mourn the unknowable parts of me that make my soul a prison, for me to weep for the dead day, not even knowing for certain there will be another sunrise.

My tears slow, as they always do, leaving the barren, empty part of me a little nearer the surface than before, a little closer to where I can bridge my way home.

But now, I'm inexpressibly tired.

After the stresses of today, I expect my dreams to be jumbled, confused, a chaotic mess - but they aren't. They're sweet, delicate, fairy images of flowers, morphing into moths that fly into a sunset sky of pink and orange and purple, and the colours pour clear and pure across my skin, clothing me in celestial tapestry, rolling me though fields of white and green, the Spring scent deepening in my nostrils, even as Autumn sweeps my hair back clean from my face. There is a glade, little, and wild, but safe and full of worship, where I can leave my heart, and go journeying without fear, returning whenever the wind blows smooth and full, to carry me across space.

I awake at dawn. For the first time since coming here, I feel refreshed, encouraged, and without pain.

Heaven help me, I actually feel confident.

Determined not to live any longer in fear, I _take off_ my nightgown, and then get dressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn, mo Sorcha, na caoin, mas, e do thoil e, mo chridhe, tha gaol agam ort. . ." - I love you, my brown-haired lass, my Claire, don't cry, please, my heart, I love you. . .


	28. Well Laid Plots

"Tea or coffee?" Jamie pokes his head out of the break room in my office, "I c'n make either."

"Tea, of _course_ ," I say, over my shoulder, "Three bags to a liter, and steeped for five minutes exactly. No cream, no sugar."

He grins, and shakes his head, "Ye'er sae _English_ , Sassenach."

"Yes. And a good thing too, considering you just called me 'English English'."

"S'pose I did," he frowns slightly, and his head disappears back into the tiny room.

I smile, and turn back to the map of Leoch I have unrolled on my desk, re-checking the route we'll be taking today. I've never walked plots that are outdoors before, let alone on such uneven ground, or in such chilly weather. All the same, the layout of Leoch's arable fields is about what I expected from a rocky, hilly country like this one, and the route I have planned is as efficient as I can make it. . . which isn't very. I estimate we'll be trudging around, trying to get all the necessary samples, for at least four or five hours. And that's just the section I have planned for today.

I'm used to this stage taking three hours, at most - some of the larger farming concerns might require six hours, split over two days, but certainly no more than that - and I already doubt if I'll be able to walk the Leoch fields in less than a week. I'm used to walking grids of hydroponic vats, taking water and growing medium samples, testing for light source and growth tray integrity, and then going back to my lab, where I program the sensors, run a biome compatibility simulation and growth stat probability curve, calibrate my crop regulators for optimal resource distribution, and then let the planters and fertilizers get to work. I'm _used_ to ten hectares of growing space fitting into a building of one fifth that area. I'm used to metal floors, scrubbed clean, the only soil in sight the carefully conserved trays of bio-active compost used to grow a few non-hybridized specialties. I'm used to a white lab coat, an info-screen, and a chem-test pack being my primary farming tools.

Despite the fact that I've been studying maps since yesterday, and have put on at least two full layers of the warmest clothing Annie has provided me, I feel wildly under-prepared to be walking the plots of a full-soil farm in late 21st century Scotland, in mid-November, armed with nothing but trowels, specimen vials, a bottle of tea, and one tall and ridiculously attractive Scotsman.

I feel wildly under-prepared for just dealing with the Scotsman, to be perfectly honest. But the confidence I felt when I awoke hasn't left me, though it _is_ hiding behind some anxiety at the moment. . .

"There ye are, Sassenach," says Jamie, putting a largish metal bottle down next to me on the desk. A "thermos" he called it, when I invited him in out of the cold twenty minutes ago. He'd offered to make me 'a wee thermos of tea' while I finished preparing the day's battle plan.

I spent most of what was left of yesterday poring over this and several other maps, and trying to marshal my resources into anything resembling a methodical structure. I had set Geordie and Willie to work cleaning and organizing the lab as much as they could, and they were only occasionally distracted by Angus and Rupert, who spent the day lounging in the lab break room with several stacks of Davie Beaton's old magazines, retrieved from the recycling bins. By supper time Willie proudly showed me a halfway workable section of lab counter, full access to most of the lab's greenhouse, and a set of startlingly well-organized sprouting trays. By that time I had a mildly functional understanding of the layout and crop history of about a quarter of Leoch's arable fields, as well.

Encouraging developments, all of them, but still an alarmingly meagre arsenal for the job I've taken on. . .

I force myself to smile. With Jamie here, and a bottle of hot tea, what is there to worry about?

We're going to walk the fields, collect chem samples, collect biome samples, bag and label them, and spend the day together. What is there in that to be anxious over?

"Thank you," I say, sighing deeply. Then I wrinkle my nose, recognizing a familiar stink coming from the break room, "But why do I smell _coffee_?" I wave my hand in front of my face, trying to get rid of the odour.

"It's fer me," he shrugs, "I dinnae like tea."

"Oooo, _sacrilege_!" I hiss, both annoyance and reluctant allowance rising up in me. I hate coffee, but it's mostly the smell I can't stand. If _he_ likes it, I suppose I'll have to find a way to deal with it, just like I did with my mother and _her_ fondness for the vile stuff. "Tea is the nectar of the _gods_ , Jamie." I open the dark blue enameled bottle he gave me and take a sip. Delicious. The steam rises up to me, blotting out the acidic pungency of the coffee from my nostrils, and bathing my face in soft fragrance.

"Hot leaf-water? Oh, aye. Nectar, tae be sure," he says, unenthusiastically. But he goes right back into the break room, and activates the office air-recirculator on the way. By the time I re-cap my bottle, there is only a faint lingering scent here in the office proper. "Thin, bitter, uninterestin' nectar. Aye."

I snort, "And of course you like _coffee_ instead, of all things! The dark water that seeps from hell and smells like the devil! That _has_ to break some kind of holy commandment somewhere, Jamie, it really does."

"Och, ceartainly, ceartainly. Ye ken I still aim tae drink it, regardless, aye? This pot included?" I see him moving about, fixing up his own thermos exactly the way he likes.

I sigh, over-dramatically, "Fine. But I demand fifteen kisses as penance." I push back from my desk. The plan is as planned as I can plan it. Now, to get it done.

"D'ye now?" Suddenly Jamie is leaning arrogantly against the doorway to the break room, his arms crossed, looking unfairly alluring for this time of morning.

I raise my chin, and put on all my Central airs and graces, "Yes. I do."

"Alrigh', then."

In two strides he has my chin in his hand, and is softly, sweetly, methodically deconstructing me with his mouth. He tastes like Mrs. Fitz's cinnamon rolls, and I have never felt so tolerant of the lingering smell of coffee. His touch is lamb stew, a steamshower, clean clothes. . . delicious, spreading contentment. Only I never knew contentment could feel this _urgent_.

I'm drifting off into an achingly warm place I haven't been to since Frank died, when he finally pulls away.

"One," I hear him murmur.

Then he sighs a little and says, more clearly, "Willie an' Geordie will be heer after the morning round wi' the horses," he shuffles some papers around on my desk, "Ye should probably leave a note fer them, sayin' what ye want done around heer while we're out."

I blink my eyes open, and finally resurface from wherever it was he just sent me, "Hmm? Sorry, I'm still on that 'one'. What do you mean - 'one'?"

He raises his eyebrows, "I'd a'thought t'was obvious, Sassenach. I can count tae fifteen as well as anyone, but ye didnae say a thing aboot how _fast_ I had tae do it."

"You. . . you. . ."

My mind fumbles about, unable to think of anything but a single question. When? When did this start to feel so _right_?

"Are gon'tae be countin' tae fifteen _verrah_ slowly. Aye."

I find my voice, if not my wits, "You're going to make this last all day, aren't you?"

"Aye. Sweetest penance I've evar had. Thankee, Sassenach," he salutes me, only half-mockingly.

"Oh, you _devil_ ," I groan, "Your liking coffee is no coincidence, that's for bloody sure. And here I thought you were going to try and stay on my _good_ side."

"Och. All yer sides are good," he purrs, voice deepening suggestively.

In fact, it _suggests_ that I might not be quite as powerless as I feel at the moment. . .

" _All_ of them?" I say, lingering over my vowels.

"Aye. Every one."

"Even. . ." I turn to take a half-step towards a nearby bookshelf, and deliberately bump the desk with my hip.

He groans, and mutters, low and harsh, " _Christ_ , Claire."

Yes, not only does all this feel right, it feels. . . normal. Like we've _always_ been this intimate. Like I've known him all my life. . .

When, oh _when_ did this stop feeling like cheating?

He comes up behind me, and gently holds my shoulders, "Ye ken I've no' even been tae confession in nearly fifteen years, aye? An' now, whene'er I jus' _think_ about that perfect arse o' yers, 'tis enough foor me tae _seriously_ reconsider my choices."

"Your choices about. . . religion?"

"My choices about _worship_ , Sassenach." His lips connect with the small patch of skin between my ear and my scarf. He presses, nuzzles and inhales, savouring me, like I did him yesterday. He is freshly shaven this morning, his smooth skin brushing mine, raising tingles that only remind me more strongly that he's mere centimeters above the little rosy bruise still glowing on my collarbone. . .

"Two," he mutters into my skin.

Then, he lifts his head, and whispers into my ear, "Dinnae forget tae bring the specimen vials, mo ghràidh."

I groan, and desperately try to banish a severe case of full-body tingling. I stamp my foot, "I _hate_ you, James Fraser."

"Aye, I noo," he says, grinning into my neck, "But th' local biome isnae goin' tae map itself, now is it?"

"No. Alas. And the soil chem tests won't run themselves, and the plots won't walk themselves," I sigh. The overwhelming task of getting Leoch's arable fields in hand is a stale, moldy prospect compared to what I want to do with this man. And _to_ him. _Repeatedly_. "Not that I'm expecting anything all that interesting to turn up, of course. . ." A very belated, intensely furious blush overtakes me, ". . . nothing more interesting than you, anyway."

"I'll make _shoor_ it isnae a boring day fer ye, then." He spins me around, wraps his arms around me, and takes my mouth again, until I seriously wonder if my legs have the muscular fortitude to be walking the plots today. . . or ever. . .

"Three," he says, an indeterminate amount of time later.

Shakily, I laugh and groan at the same time, pulling reluctantly away from him, "Why is this so easy, Jamie?"

He smirks, half mockingly arrogant, half oddly abashed, "Sae ye think I'm easy, d'ye?"

"Not _you_ , silly. _This_." I gesture between us. "It took six dates for me to get to this point with Frank, but we knew practically everything about each other by then. When we weren't out doing something together, he was calling me, or writing me messages, and I was taking pictures of things he might like and sending them to him. We hardly ever stopped talking, even to. . . I mean. . . we didn't even make it official until. . ." I give a frustrated sigh, "You barely _know_ me, Jamie! I know less about you, and _already_ , I feel like. . ."

He raises his eyebrows, "Aye?"

"Like. . . like we're already _beyond_ dating."

It isn't the answer I want to give, and it isn't the answer he wants to hear, but he still runs with it. "Instead of just about tae be going on our furst date, ye mean?"

I shake my head, "This isn't our _first_ date, Jamie. That's part of my point. It's at _least_ our fourth - fifth if you count being squished into a cupboard while hiding from the authorities, and then sleeping on top of each other for hours."

"An' what would ye say were the three others?"

I tick each one off on my fingers as I list them, "Making out the morning after, flirting in front of the fireplace with no one but two cats and a dog for chaperones, and me crying so much on your shirt yesterday, you found it necessary to give me homemade shampoo."

"Aye, weel, I reckoned t'was a better gift than real poo, ye ken."

I snort, "Har har. It was still a _date_ , Jamie."

He nods, more out of contemplation than agreement, "Considerin' how unconventional all these so-called "dates" ha' been, I think we ought tae count the cupboard, most ceartainly."

I nod, "I agree. And it was quite an opener, as far as first dates go, I have to say."

"Mmphm," he grunts, "Soo. Five dates. And a sixth one already planned. Does that make me yer boyfriend now? Are ye my girlfriend?"

"That's what I'm getting at, Jamie. Logically, after five dates, I have to say of course. If we want those labels, they're ours to claim by this point. But I know so little about you still, and you only know bits and pieces about me."

" _An'_ we only met a week ago. . ."

"That too. . ." my heart rate increases with shock. I'd actually _forgotten_ how fast this has gone. Just how short a time it has been. So much has happened between us, and yet, so very, very little time has passed. Cumulatively, in terms of actual minutes while awake, I spent more time with Lamb in three days at the manse than I have with Jamie in a week at Leoch. And it _still_ feels like we've been dating for ages.

Or have been married for a decade.

Or are in the middle of our honeymoon.

Or are the main characters in some bizarre kind of live action romance novel. . .

"I begin tae see what ye mean," he says, scratching the back of his neck, "It does seem we'er in a place. . . that we got heer more easily than. . . tha' this is. . ."

I smile, glad to see he's having just as much trouble defining us as I am.

"This is special, Jamie," I say, taking his hand and weaving my fingers through his, "Strong. And good," I go up on my toes to peck his cheek, "But we can't just let things happen any longer."

He frowns, "Bu' tha's the _fun_ part. . ."

"Oh, we can always be spontaneous about dates, or gifts, or kissing, or teasing, or talking, or any of the millions of little things, don't worry. But when it comes to _us_ , who we _are_ , and what we expect from each other - we have to plan, take charge. . . be deliberate, and _conscious_ about what we're doing. Or else. . . "

"Aye? Oor else?"

I suddenly realize to the fullest just how much this man means to me. Just how far I'd be willing to go, how much I'd be willing to do, for him. Now. Already. After only a week.

"We could _destroy_ each other, Jamie. Completely wreck each other's lives." I look up at him, very serious, "I don't want to do that to you."

His expression hardens as he realizes I'm right, "Aye. I dinnae want tae do that to ye either."

"So," I pick up a pencil, and grab a yellow pad out of the desk drawer, "I'm going to write Geordie a note saying what I want done in the lab today. Would you mind putting the bags of specimen vials in the runabout?"

He nods, and goes. I turn my focus onto writing out detailed instructions for setting up the centrifuge, the vacuum chamber, and the optical spectrometer.

A steadying bit of distance, even if only momentary, is just what we need.

Once I'm done, I attach the small sheaf of papers to the little clip on the outside edge of the info-screen. Before he left yesterday, Geordie stuck it there, and told me if I had any instructions or requests, to leave them in it, and he'd be sure to see them.

Jamie is back inside now, standing silently in the center of the room, looking at. . . of all things. . . the chair across from my desk.

"Is this where ye said those things? Made yer pact wi' Dougal an' all?"

I nod.

He comes over to me, and gently puts his arms around me. "Claire, I'll be honest wi' ye. I dinnae ken what this is, what we are, or what tae expect next - from ye oor meself. An' I havenae the slightest idea where 'tis all goin'. But. . . those promises ye made. Those vows ye took wi' Dougal. . ." His jaw clenches, and he looks me straight in the eyes, " _I_ want them."

Somehow, his intensity is disconcerting.

"You. . . want. . .?"

"Ye were forced tae say them wi' him. I want you tae _give_ them tae me. Both of 'em. An' I'll give 'em back."

"But. . . but we. . . we promised. . ."

"Honour. And truth. Aye." He pulls back a little, running his hands up and down my arms, "He took those things from ye, and drove ye inta makin' a _bargain_ wi' them. Like they were but coins in some back-alley poker game. Wi' yer peace of mind at stake. It turns my stomach, that does."

It suddenly strikes me, just exactly how monstrous Dougal has been. I realize that, on some subconscious level, I've been comparing him to Black Jack, and making allowances, because no matter how awful the situation with Dougal has gotten, it has never approached "violent four-on-one attack and attempted murder", at least.

But, I see now, that was a mistake. Black Jack is a different species of wrong - an evil man with corrupt power - the kind of man that abuses any and all who come into his sphere, for the pleasure, the _joy_ of it. . .

Dougal hasn't sunk that low, but he also _knows better_.

At the moment I'm unsure if that makes his treatment of me worse or not.

There _is_ a difference between a demon and a fallen angel. There has to be. But. . .

"An' alsoo. . ." Jamie hesitates, clenching his jaw again, "Ye dinnae ken how much it sticks in my craw - _I_ didnae ken it until I came back inside jus' now. . . That there should be promises between ye and him - and _such_ promises! - and none between ye an' me. He, who'd neglect ye, let ye suffer, and me, who'd die first." He pulls me close, and speaks into my hair, "I blame him entirely, ye ken, but I _want_ them, Claire. The same promises. Only better, made pure, because they're freely given." He sighs deeply, the heat of his breath warming the top of my head, "I wilnae plead or press ye, an' if ye say no, I'll no' mention it again, but I want them, that I do. . ."

I hide my face in his jacket. This goes far beyond gallantry, hospitality, kindness, or friendship. Far beyond dating, even.

And far, _far_ beyond a bit of pleasurable flirting and kissing. . .

"That's. . . a lot to ask, Jamie."

"I noo," he pulls back, and looks over my face for a minute, "No matter if ye say it back, I'm goin' tae promise ye now, Claire. I promise ye honour and truth, no' just for three questions, or whenever we may have contentious dealings, but for always. Honour and truth, tha mi a 'gealltainn iad sin dhut, a ghràidh."

I don't know what the Gaelic words mean, but the sincerity, the _commitment_ in his tone quite overwhelms me. For a moment I feel like some kind of medieval queen, taking a vow of fealty from a noble knight.

But, he wants to hear my promise in return. All at once, I am only a common farm technician from 2279 again, and truth - whole, unvarnished truth - is impossible. There are things about myself I simply cannot tell him.

Although. . .

If I was willing to promise Dougal, even willing to tell him about the future if it came down to it, don't I owe Jamie at least that much? I still have a say in when or if the time is right, of course, but. . .

"Truth. . . has room in it for secrets, you know," I say, at last.

"Oh, I ken it well," he says, an unreadable expression on his face.

"And. . . you accept that?"

"Aye. I do."

I nod, and take a deep breath, "Alright. I promise too. Honour and truth between us. For always."

He smiles, and we seal our oath with something much more pleasant than words.

"Four," he grins, "And the plots await ye, Madame."

He hands me my thermos, then bows and gestures me towards the door, half teasing, and half triumphant.

I shake my head, smile, and follow him to the runabout.

The nearest field is only a few dozen meters away, one wide track separating it from the grove of fruit trees that surround the kitchen gardens. There are only wooden fences around this section, though most of the other fields are surrounded with low stone walls, or wire-strung paling. Near the wide double-gate, Jamie stops the runabout, and jumps out, pointing at the base of the fence, where there are several dead weeds, and a spare, leggy bolt of mint, still clinging desperately to a few yellowish green leaves.

"These are things ye need, aye, Sassenach?"

"Yes they are," I say, handing him a bag with six specimen vials in it, "Try and get each plant separately, and get a sample of the soil right next to where they're growing. Try not to get any of the root matrix, if at all possible, just the soil. I'm going to walk this field, and get a soil sample from the middle of the plot."

"Aye," he says, extracting the mint and weeds with a little pointed trowel he brought, "Go oon. I'll catch up wi' ye."

I grab another bag of vials, and shoulder my way past the gate, into the first of the fields I'm to care for here at Leoch. The first of many. The soil here is well turned, and snug for the winter, just how I've always read soil should be. Due to the early frosts not coming quite as early as expected, this was the final field harvested last season, according to the books - harvested just three weeks ago. Now, the long, dark lines of earth stretch on, and on, this one moderately sized field seeming enormous, almost infinite, now that my feet are actually treading the clotted curls of soil. The field history manuals say that for the past three decades, this field has mostly been used for sugar beets, which is one reason why I wanted to start here.

Some of the best life advice I've ever received is, "Start with what you know, and learn from there". Well, I know sugar beets.

Now to do some learning.

I walk a ragged diagonal line across the field, stopping now and then to look, smell, feel, and listen to these new surroundings. The black, half-frozen soil makes thudding, heavy sounds beneath my step, and great fragments cling to my boots. The smell of it is surprisingly sweet, almost floral, instead of earthy. The field history manuals say this field is turned in with beet pulp, green compost, and cow manure to overwinter. I wonder which one the odour comes from - or if it is all three.

It takes until I am crouching down to collect my soil sample that I realize how quiet it is out here. The creak of the gate as Jamie enters the field sounds loud in my ears, and that is dozens of meters away. The soft _scrape-scrape-tshh_ of my hand trowel spreads musically across the earth as it breaks past the hard outer crust of frost, and brings up a soft, friable sample for my vial. Jamie's heavily plodding tread rolls like drumbeats in the still, cold air.

He holds up two more bags of sample vials. "I thought we could doo that field while we'er here," he nods behind me and gestures down along the track a ways, "And come back tae the runabout along the fence. That way ye wilnae miss any samples ye need. Along that border, a'least."

"That's about what I had planned anyway," I say, putting the full vial back in with its fellows, "Let's go."

We finish walking the diagonal of the field together - me, hyper-aware of my surroundings, and him, silently letting me do my job.

I suppose everything about this might seem odd to him, but no, surely not. Someone who also works on a farm must know the importance of the lay of the land. The smell, the _feel_ of things. Of _seeing_ it all, for sure, in person.

Even with hydroponic indoor-farming, walking the plots is essential. An experienced farming tech can tell by instinct if a crop's projected biome will unbalance the growth curve. A good tech always knows the smell of the vats, the state of the growing trays, and the name of every hybrid in use under their domain.

As we reach the upper corner of this sugar beet plot, I _finally_ feel like I'm starting to get a handle on things. Soil farming is massively different than hydroponics, but I can see, now, the importance of the sun, wind, rain, and seasons. They were all the crop regulators my predecessors had. . . and they did well enough with them. Better than well enough. There is no reason why I should not do just as well. I feel a phalanx of men and women at my back, Davie Beaton and all the others whose names I don't know, lending me their centuries of experience. I have a very, very long way to go yet, but, it's finally within my compass.

At last, I know _where_ I am, as well as when.

A small mound of earth separates this field from the next - a low, compact line of pebbly dirt, just wide enough for a maintenance vehicle. Wordlessly, I hand Jamie three of the remaining empty vials for this field's worth of samples. He takes them, and walks along the mound, scanning for any plant material down the long edge of the field. I take the last two vials, and walk the short edge. We meet back up at the corner, vials full. I bag them, he labels them, and we go on to the next field.

This one, the manuals say, is a potato field. They listed three small, sweet varieties that have been grown here, and noted that they are intended mainly for use in the house kitchens, not as animal fodder or to be sold. At the top edge, there is a low stone wall - important to note when planning what machines to use for ploughing and harvesting. Jamie takes five empty vials and makes to walk this shorter border, calling over his shoulder to me as he does so.

"There's fungi and mosses grow along this wall, Sassenach. I'll see tae them. Walk yer field, an meet me a' the far gate," he gestures cater-corner from where we're standing.

I nod, and do so.

Two fields, then six, then ten, we're halfway though what I have planned for today, when Jamie calls for a break. We take our drinks, still hot in their steel bottles, and go sit in the corner of a low stone wall, where the rock and the land curve just so, making a pocket of warmer green amongst the wide, chill grey of the Leoch fields in November. The skies too, are wide and grey, the air cold, the odour of the fields strong. But I have never felt less dreary or oppressed.

I've never felt less lonely, either.

Jamie is telling me about a mushroom he found two fields ago, a poisonous one, but still useful, because it has styptic properties if applied topically, when for just a moment, thin, halfhearted shafts of sunlight peek though the masses of steel-grey clouds. Even this is enough to light him up - pale skin, vivid hair, electric blue eyes that can glow, warm and sweet with laughter, just as easily as they can crackle, ice-hard and serious. Laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, shaggy curls very nearly as wild as my own, broad, long-fingered hands at least twice the size of mine. . . I've never taken such unalloyed pleasure in just _looking_ at a man before. Not this close to, anyway, and not one I was also free to touch.

Who _is_ this man? And what is this thing that we have between us?

"Ye dinnae care aboot the local flora a' the moment, doo ye, Sassenach?" he says, looking at me askance.

I feel a ridiculous blush come up on my cheeks, and I shake my head, "At the moment, I'm afraid I don't. Not at all."

He takes a swallow of his coffee, "Sae what's on yer mind, then?"

"Ohh. . . just how little I know about you."

And how little that seems to matter to the part of me that wants to climb inside him and lose myself.

"Weel, my favourite colour is brown, if tha' helps."

I blink. "Your. . . favourite colour?"

"Aye. Tha's the traditional opening question, is it no'?"

I snort and laugh a little, "Alright. Sure. Brown. Isn't that a bit dull?" I say, my mind's eye seeing the blooms of rust on the walls of Lower townships, and the blank brown of uncharged collector panels.

"And ye a botanist!" he scoffs, "Nae, Sassenach, brown is one o' th'most varied and beautiful o' colours. Soo many different shades an' tones, wi' so many other colours included. Reds and golds, greens, purples, ye can find them all in brown," he gestures all around us, "Really _look_ at a chestnut tree sometime, mo nighean, oor a walnut, oor an oak. Sometimes brown is a creamy, delicate white. Sometimes brown is a warm, luminous black. Sometimes it's clear water, flowing over pebbles in a stream, glinting wi' sunlight, and sometimes it's the hills, the heather an' the grass, ripplin' in the wind."

I smile, enchanted by all this whimsy over a colour, "Well. . . when you put it that way. . ."

"Aye." He looks at me mischievously, "Soo then, what's yers?"

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"A'coorse I wilnae laugh. Oor if I doo, it wilnae be at ye."

"Growing up, it used to be every kind of pink. Stereotypical, I know. As an adult, I found I usually preferred red. But, recently. . ."

Ever since seeing the dark, clean waves of reclaimed ocean around Cold Island 12, in fact. . .

"Aye?"

"Stygian Blue."

"Agch," he shakes his head, "Ye _would_ like an impossible colour best."

"Chimerical, to be specific."

"Fine, ye would go fer a _chimerical_ colour - one I cannae get made inta a dress oor find flowers in. How exactly am I supposed tae doo boyfriend things fer ye, when ye have a favourite colour like that?"

I give an exaggerated sigh, "You'll just have to do other kinds of boyfriend things, I suppose."

He reaches out and pulls me to him, kissing me, all warm and gentle and deep.

"Five," he says, running a finger down my jaw.

I grin as I pull away, but also wrinkle my nose, "Bleh. You taste like coffee."

"D'ye really hate coffee sae much, then?"

"Well, it's mostly the smell, and yeah, I do." I take the last mouthful of my tea, "I can _tolerate_ the taste, occasionally, when it's mixed with other things, but the smell. . . ugh."

"Doo. . . ye _really_ care that I dinnae like tea?"

"No, of course not," I say, lightly, "You like what you like, it's not a problem."

He draws his brows together, "It is if ye truly hate somethin' I like. Oor t'other way 'round."

"Maybe. But there are ways. Compromises. We'll figure it out."

"Aye. We will."

He takes my hand, and plants open-mouthed kisses all along the ridge of my knuckles. Then, he blows a thin stream of air across them, and a jolt goes up my arm.

"Six," he smirks.

I pull my hand away, and clear my throat, desperately trying to keep my composure.

"So, you're Catholic?"

He shakes his head, "Raised Catholic. Murtagh's my godfather."

" _Oh_! I did wonder, vaguely. Just what he was to you, I mean. Or what you were to him. Two Frasers among all these Mackenzies - he has to be here for a reason."

He nods, "He's hands doon one o' the best men I've evar met. I love him, an' I thank the Church fer him on the daily. But beyond that," he taps his left chest, "It didnae take holt. Heer, ye ken. I dinnae have aught against those as find meaning there, but foor me. . ." he shrugs, and gestures at the sky, "I dinna ken whoo's oot there, oor what, oor if there's anyone oor anythin'. An' as fer what they may oor may not want us tae doo fer them, oor because o' them. . . agch. . . whoo kens that at all, if they're beein' truly honest? But I ken a Human is moor than blood and bone and skin. A Human has a mind, an' a soul. _That_ , I ken." He shrugs again, "It's enough fer me."

"Fair enough," I nod.

"An' ye?"

I lean back against the mossy stones, "I wasn't raised anything. Not for or against, just. . . nothing. And, oddly enough, that didn't take hold for me, either. I wanted something more than nothing." I pause for a bit, then shake my head, "I flailed about for a long time. I looked into Islam, and Buddhism, and Hinduism, and Gaia, and Judaism, and Catholicism, of course, and at least a dozen more things I can only half remember."

"Nowt took?"

"Nothing took. It was all too. . . I don't know. Too. . . contrived, I suppose. Or at least it seemed that way to me. In the end, none of it felt real."

His lip twists in sympathy, "A common enough feelin'. An' now?"

"Now, I'm a confirmed agnostic." I smile at him, "No matter where we started, it sounds like we both ended up in pretty much the same place. Sometimes I think there can't possibly be anything but us, and there never was, so Humanity had better be enough for me." I sigh, "And sometimes, I think there _has_ to be. . . well. . . _something_ more than us. A source. A goal. A reason or. . . purpose, I suppose. Something I don't know and couldn't discover, but is still there, just. . . waiting."

"An' is tha' enough fer ye?"

"Well, as far as a belief system goes, it isn't _much_ more than nothing, but, it _is_ something, I guess. And it still leaves the way open for me to explore. Yeah. It's enough."

"Can I ask ye a terribly personal follow-up question?"

I snort, "Oh, please do. I can't wait to hear what you think is more personal than 'what's your religion?'."

"What did Frank believe?"

That brings me up short. "Oh. Yeah, that'll do it." I sigh again. "He was CoE Protestant. And entirely casual and incurious about it."

"I see," he says, blandly.

For some reason, this annoys me, " _Do_ you? _What_ do you see?"

"That ye value curiosity, and open-mindedness," he says, carefully, "Mebbe even more than ye think ye do - an' _that_ was something ye and Frank didnae have quite in common."

I run my fingers along the rough, dry grass between us. "That's. . . true. But also not."

"Can ye tell me about him?" he asks, gently.

I blink, a bit incredulous, "Do. . . you _really_ want to know?"

"Aye."

He has promised me truth. This is the truth. I can see it, there in his eyes.

"Alright." Warm remembrances come flooding back, filling my heart with their sweetness, "Frank was. . . Well, he was _good_. And steadfast, and loving. And so much more intelligent than most people gave him credit for. He was quiet, reserved, but. . . sure. Generous. Kind. I could always count on him. And he always encouraged me, even inspired me. He never got in the way of my stubborn curiosity - quite the opposite. He often stood between me and people who thought I should have just slotted neatly into their traditional notions of wifehood. But he _would_ , on occasion. . . oh, how to put it? . . . He would channel me, I suppose. He'd lift me up, make sure I listened to myself, make sure I never let my curiosity get the better of me, you know? He supported me, even though he almost never came along with me on 'my wonderings', as he called them. He was my anchor. And he _always_ made me a better person, just by existing. I didn't just love him, I loved who I was when I was with him, too."

The dry grass is sharp against my palm. Perhaps that is why two tears prick in my eyes. Perhaps it isn't.

"Ye do give a man a lot tae live up tae, Sassenach." Jamie sighs, and smiles, ruefully.

I lift an eyebrow in his direction, "Too heavy for a tea break chat?"

"Nae. I did ask."

"You did."

"Somethin' easier next?"

"What a glorious idea."

We both dust our hands on our jeans, and he lends me a hand to help me up.

"What's yer favourite novel?"

"Ohh, you said _easier_ \- that's a hard one. . ." I lead the way back to the runabout.

"Aye, ye'er right. Favourite sci-fi or fantasy novel, then. And _dinnae_ say Lord Of The Rings, I'm beggin' ye."

I wasn't going to. Nowhere close. But his insistence rankles me.

"Why not, if it's true?"

"Because it's like sayin' yer favorite composer is Beethoven. An' yer favourite work o' his is the Fifth Symphony. Aye, aye, we all know that one, and likin' it isnae bad, but have a wee bit o' imagination in yer choice of a _favourite_ , please." He starts the runabout, getting us on the way to our next field.

"Says the man who didn't like it that my favourite colour is Stygian Blue."

"A colour isnae _art_ , Sassenach."

"Fine, fine. Out of the Silent Planet, by C. S. Lewis."

"Now _tha's_ an imaginative choice. Why d'ye like that one?"

"Because the depiction of Mars is so full. Not just detailed - _packed_ with meaning. With value. It's a dying planet, but, its races, its cultures - they survive, they go on, they move forward. And there's so many plants, and creatures. Even in its decline, Mars is rich with life. I like that."

He hands me a bag of vials, "Spoken like a true botanist, mo nighean."

More like a true survivor of World War IV. But I acknowledge the compliment, and kiss his cheek.

"So. What's yours?"

"Le Petit Prince, by Saint-Exupéry."

"Oh, I love that one too! What's your favourite bit?"

He pauses a long time, almost as if he didn't anticipate the question. Which is odd, considering he asked me first. He comes with me as I walk the field, measuring his step to mine. When we reach the silent peace that only resides in the very midst of sleeping earth, he says, lowly -

"It is only wi' the heart tha' one can see a'right. What is essential is invisible tae the eye."

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't. We reach the far end of the field. I hand him two vials, gesturing him along the short border, and I take three, scanning down the long border.

When we return to the runabout, I ask, "Do you like it in French, or the English translation?"

He seems to wake up at that, and grins at me, "Both, o'course."

"No 'of course' about it," I say, "Other than a few essential phrases, I'm very shaky speaking in French, and I can't read it very well either. I didn't know you could at all."

"Read it, speak it. . ." he shrugs, "I cannae sing in it, but then, I cannae sing in any language. . ."

"And just how many languages do you speak?"

"Fluently? Twelve."

" _Twelve_? You're kidding!"

"Nae, Sassenach. English, Gaelic, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Russian, Greek, Arabic, Japanese, and Mandarin Chinese."

I stare at him, mouth open.

"A man needs a hobby, mo ghràidh."

"A _hobby_? That's. . . _quite_ a casual amusement you've got there, my friend."

"I'm alsoo middlin' good at Latin, Cantonese, Korean, Swahili, Tuareg, Danish, Norwegian, Tagalog, Hindi, Urdu, and Thai. And I'm currently learnin' Polish."

"Oh _no_!" I giggle at him, "You're a _nerd_!"

"Ahgch," he lightly punches my shoulder, then pulls us up to the next field, "Says th'lass who fixed a Rover engine with jus' a little bit moor than her bare hands, an' the next day, _hacked a computer_."

"Only because those things are a part of my _work_ , Jamie!"

"Aye, and the languages were supposed tae be part of mine."

That sobers me up quickly. "Oh. Oh, _'supposed'_ to be?"

"Aye. I majored in cultural medicines at Université, and studied as many languages as I could, because my dream job was tae work for Médecins Sans Frontières."

"Doctors. . . with no. . ."

"Without Borders."

"Right."

We walk the edges of this field first, unwilling to give up the closeness of our talk just yet.

"I wanted tae travel the world - but no' just fer me, ye ken. I wanted tae be someone who wouldnae only understand what other people said, but could alsoo understand how they were feeling. What it was like tae _be_ the way they were. How tae make them feel like acceptin' help was. . . an addition tae them. No' a subtraction." He gives a heavy sigh, "But, the murder put an end tae all that, a'course. Whoever killed him killed that dream too. A'least for the foreseeable future." He grins at me, "But I cannae get rid o' the language bug, it seems. No' countin' Polish, I learned three languages this year - Tagalog, Urdu and Korean."

"Well, you're right. That's a hobby. And not _particularly_ nerdy. . ."

He turns to me, eyes twinkling, "Ye ken, I also speak Elvish, Klingon, and Dothraki."

"Smartass," I punch him in the arm, and he acts exaggeratedly hurt, clutching his shoulder as if I punched him harder than a toddler could. "Smartass _nerd_!" I shout with laughter, grab his shoulders and shake him playfully. Then he catches my eyes, and I stop, instantly falling silent.

"Kiss me," I all but order him.

He does, on the temple, short and hard.

"That's seven," I say, taking up the count.

He kisses me again, on the jaw, right where I'm inexplicably ticklish.

"Eight."

And again, softly, on the chin.

"Nine."

Once more, on the soft skin below my ear.

"Ten."

His leans his forehead against mine, and it's not a kiss. It's somehow better.

"Ye could tell me tae doo anythin' just now, Sassenach. Dinnae ken why, but I cannae tell ye no taeday. . ."

" _Any_ thing, huh?"

"Aye, I'm under yer spell."

I run my fingers lightly along one of his shoulders, and up his neck, cupping his jaw, "And you're okay with that?"

"There's nae place I'd rather be."

He pulls me close, and kisses me like he did back in the manager's office. When he's done, I have to clutch on to him for another few seconds, or I know my legs will give out.

"Eleven," he says, smirking.

I groan. "Who's under whose spell, again. . .?

He laughs triumphantly, then stills, all of a sudden, just like I did a minute ago.

"His name was William. My older brother. The furst one tae read tae me in French."

I take his hand, and lead him down the long diagonal of the field.

"We called him Bobby. T'was my mam's nickname for him - she allus said tha' as a bairn he was as bonny as a bobbin. He was eight years older than me - an' my sister Jenny between us. He didnae have tae like me - probably ought tae have hated me, wee beastie tha' I was, then. But he read me bedtime stories instead. Tom Sawyer. My Side O' The Mountain. James Herriot. Sherlock Holmes. Alice In Wonderland. An' The Little Prince, in French."

"Was?" I say, knowing all too well what the answer will be.

"He died when I was eighteen. Right before I went off tae university. Undiagnosed brain aneurysm. One minute he was there. The next he was gone. It was tha' quick," he snaps his fingers, "Too quick. _Cruel_ quick. Gave my mam a complete nervous breakdown."

We've reached the middle of the field. He hands me the vial for my soil sample.

"I was goin' tae go tae school in England, but I applied to Université de Paris the day after the funeral, sae I could take her tae the little cottage we own in Provence, an' look after her as much as I could, even while I was at school. My younger brother Rob lives there wi' her now, an' works fer my cousin Jared. They do well by her. Bu' she hasnae been the same since."

There's something behind his words. Something he hasn't said yet, even in the middle of all these revelations. . .

"But?" I prompt.

"But. . . 'What is essential is invisible tae the eye'. _I_ ken Bobby is still heer, somewhere. Even if he cannae be seen."

I throw my arms around his neck, and gently press my lips to one side of his mouth.

"Twelve," I whisper.

The other side.

"Thirteen."

I lean away a little, but he catches the back of my head, and pulls me to him, as slowly and as carefully as if it is the first time.

It is a chaste kiss, but meaningful, and sweet. Satisfying.

"Fourteen," he says.

I look him straight in the eyes.

"You're a good man, James Fraser."

He doesn't reply.

Back at the runabout, he asks, "D'ye have any favourite music?"

"Oh, I _like_ all sorts of music," I say, while labeling the latest bag of samples, "I listen to a bit of almost everything, from all different places and eras - by all manner of artists. But favourite? I'm so eclectic it's hard to pin down a favourite."

"Anythin' ye never tire of?"

I smile, "Now _that's_ easy. Saint-Saëns - Danse Macabre. Oh, and Holst's The Planets. I could listen to that one over and over."

He nods, "Me too."

"Hey now, no fair taking my answers! Get your own favourite!" I lightly slap his shoulder as he turns the runabout up the track to the next section of fields.

"Ye said yerself ye dinnae _have_ a favourite!"

"Well, too bad! That's the closest I've got, so go get your own, you favourite stealer!"

"Ye wee plague, I dinnae ken wha' I'm tae doo wi' y-"

"Favourite stealer, favourite stealer!"

"Agch! Fine! Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man, an' Four Seasons by Vivaldi, are ye happy now?"

"Yes," I say, in between laughing at him, "Though I'm a bit surprised there's no Scottish music there."

" _Imaginative_ favourites, remember? 'Sides, ye'll hear a good deal of my favourite traditional music at the concert oon Friday."

"Right, about that," I say, suddenly so deeply serious it's very clear I'm teasing him, "What should I wear?"

"Weel, that depends." There's a twinkle in his eyes that mirrors my teasing.

"Depends on what?"

"Who ye'er dressin' for."

He takes one hand off the steering yoke, and lays it across my shoulders, a classic leering smirk gracing his face.

"Okay. . . I'll bite. What are my choices?"

"Weel, ye can dress for yerself - meaning ye can wear whatever ye like. Ye can dress for the situation - meanin' whatever ye have that's comfortable tae dance in." We pull up to a wide gate made from metal spars and strung wires, but he makes no move to get out of the runabout, nor lets me even think of leaving without him, "Ye could even dress for Rupert or Angus an' that type - meanin' anything with a low neckline and a suggestion of hidden lace. Ye'd knock 'em all flat, I have nae doot. _Eef_ tha's what ye want."

"Uh-huhhh. . . or?" I think I can guess what he's going to say next, but I feign ignorance, just to tease him.

"Oor, ye could dress fer me."

I lick my lips, "Meaning. . . ?"

"Anything. So long as yer arse looks good."

I snort, "You, Jamie Fraser, are incorrigible."

"Noo, I'm encourageable."

With his accent, it takes me a second to understand his joke. When I get it, I laugh so loud it echoes off the nearby hedges.

He grins, and jumps out of the runabout, "It _is_ good tae see ye laugh soo much, Sassenach."

We've finally reached the top fields, the ones furthest from the house, and the last I have planned for today.

At the end of this field, there is a wide strip of brush before the trees start, full of scrub and berry bushes, and here and there a section of poorly maintained hedge. I take two full bags of vials and walk this border first - the biome samples from here will be far more relevant than the field's soil chemistry.

Jamie goes a pace or two into the brush, picking leaves and here and there a berry or two, investigating vines and young trees, and bringing back all manner of samples for me.

We're almost done, when he gives a loud, hissing, "Huish!"

Which is odd, since we aren't currently talking.

"What?" I whisper, fiercely.

"Cannae ye hear it?" he leans close to me, and points into the brush, "Ower thear."

Now that I'm paying attention, I _can_ hear something. Not close, but near enough to be clearly heard, just the same. A rustling, a chattering. Now and then a yip.

"Soonds like a brace o' wee foxes," he says, eyes lit up, posture eager and curious, "I'm goin' tae try an' see them."

Slowly, carefully, barely making a sound, he wades into the bushes. He's a few dozen meters away when he crouches down, disappearing from my view entirely.

"Och, wouldnae ye jus' luv tae wake up one morning and find _that_ wee fox cub was makin' a nest in yer underbrush?" says a mysterious female voice.

A woman appears beside me, seeming to have sprung right out of the hedges. I turn and look at her. She is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, with light red hair and snapping green eyes over a well-formed, sardonic mouth. She is wearing a hooded black coat with a logo on it proclaiming "Duncan's Farming Supplies", but this tells me less than nothing.

And also, she just appeared from nowhere. . .

". . . excuse me?" I manage to ask.

She smiles, and puts out her hand.

"Geillis Duncan, at yer searvice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "tha mi a 'gealltainn iad sin dhut, a ghràidh" - I promise these to you, dear


	29. Witchy Woman

Half in a dream, I shake the strange woman's hand.

"I'm Claire B-"

"Beauchamp, aye," she grins at me, her eyes dancing, "Ye'ev been the talk of Cranesmuir for _days_ , pet."

"Oh. _Have_ I? Sorry about that."

I fiddle with the sample vials I'm holding, unsure what to think, much less how to feel. But an almost eerie atmosphere has fallen over these plain and simple Leoch fields.

I don't think I like it. In fact, I think I'm frightened of it.

"Och, nae need tae be sorry. The rumours have been quite varied and entertainin'."

"Have they?"

"Aye. E'erythin' from Murtagh findin' an escaped wee lioness, tae ye were sleapin' in a pile o' leaves in the middle o' th'road, an' Dougal literally tripped ri' ower ye on his way hoom from campaignin', tae ye beein' heer tae offer dear auld Rupert a chance tae have a wee English rose named after 'im - ahgch! - there hasnae been such talk in town fer _years_ , pet, tha' there hasnae."

"Oh," I say, deliberately vague.

"Ye posi _tiv_ ely willnae _believe_ what Mrs. Hunt - she owns the general goods shop next door tae me, ye ken - what she said tae me when I towld her I was comin' oot this way. . ."

As she prattles on, my hackles continue to rise at this apparition of a woman, which is odd in itself, since - other than her inexplicable method of arrival - I can see no good reason to feel that way about her. She's being a bit over-familiar, perhaps, and entirely too suggestive, certainly, but neither of those is a threat to me, not from her, and especially not here and now.

Although that doesn't explain my sudden overwhelming feeling of. . . what _is_ it I'm feeling? It isn't just vague eeriness, it's more than that. It isn't fear, nor jealousy, nor disgust, mostly. . . it isn't even primarily wariness. No. It's. . . it's. . .

Deja-vu.

Yes. That's it.

There's something, _something_ about her that I'm _sure_ I recognize. Something I've seen before. _Heard_ before.

But from where? Or from _who_?

I prim up my mouth in a decidedly Central gesture, declining to engage in her overly voluble gossip.

At last she pauses her stream of words, and notices my reaction. Her lips twist, wryly, "Och! There's nae need tae get sae _English_ ower it awl, pet!" She pats my arm and eyes me teasingly, I think in an attempt to be reassuring, but she only succeeds in setting off more of my instinctive alarm bells, "Th'most o' it is jus' mince - good-natured flights o' fancy erry'un _kens_ isnae true, but iff'n it makes fer a good mid-mornin' chatter, whear's th'harm, aye?"

I narrow my eyes at her, "And. . . the rest of it?"

She laughs, "Pa- _yoo_ -er jealousy tha' it wasnae _they_ whoo were asked tae sit at High Table wi' The MacKenzie! Nowt tae fash ye, tae be shoor!"

I try and smile a bit, "So. . . Ms. Duncan. . . can I. . . help you, in some way?"

"Weel, I dinnae ken," she says, slyly, "I ha' this delivery order fer a quarter hectare's worth o' crop sensors, and a rental confirmation packet for a Reinhardt Crop Regulator, model-512 , but both are made out tae a. . . Geordie Mackenzie?"

I nod, "Geordie is one of my assistants in the manager's barn, yes."

"Sae eet's _troo_ then, is et?" she grins, jumping in place a little, "Colum's gone and got himsel' a Sassenach Farm Manager?"

I try and shake off all the things that seem odd about this woman, and the strange feelings interacting with her is giving me, and deal with the situation as I would any normal meeting with a fellow worker and tradesman. I realize it is a test, of sorts. Today has been so easy - the fractured feelings and looming tensions of yesterday entirely gone from my mind. Today, I've been smoothly switching between Girlfriend Claire, Farm Technician Claire, and Farm Manager Claire - all with the unconscious ease of someone who is _always_ safely and securely residing inside her own head. But, that's not entirely a surprise, given that my only companion has been Jamie. Out of everyone I've met here, he is the one I trust the most, hands down. Jamie has been as crystal-clear as his eyes when it comes to me, and it makes being with him breathtakingly simple and rejuvenating. No need to analyze or question his motives, or wonder about possible double meanings in the things he says. I just get to be, whoever I need to be, in the moment.

But now, with this unexpected encounter, it is as good a chance as any to see if I'm rejuvenated enough for Warrior Claire or Investigative Scientist Claire to come out and play too, and still leave my psyche in one piece.

"As I understand it, Ms. Duncan, that's not a very polite thing to call me."

She smiles, but her eyes harden, "Mrs. And I dinnae mean anythin' by it, pet."

I raise my chin, "Now _that_ I find very difficult to believe."

"Doo ye now?"

"Yes. You strike me as the very model of a person who speaks their mind, Mrs. Duncan."

She throws her head back in a great shout of uninhibited laughter, "Weel yoo _do_ have me thear, right enough, my duck!" She pats my arm again, "Nae offense, aye? All in th'spirit tha' 'tis meant?"

"Oh, no offense taken, to be sure, Mrs. Duncan," I say, very carefully polite and proper, "But to answer your question, yes, Colum has seen fit to ask for my services in managing his arable fields. Hence, our order for a crop regulator."

Just as suddenly as he disappeared, Jamie re-emerges, standing up in the brush. He makes a partial gesture towards me, but then he notices our visitor, and does not wave, nor call out.

Geillis notices my attention shift, though, and turns from me, fixing her eyes on him, as he slowly wades though the unruly thickets of green and brown.

"Mmmf," she makes a Scottish sound somewhere in between a grunt and a groan, "Please Claire, _please_ tell me ye'ev tasted yonder great sweet block o' tablet! Oor a'least say tha' _he's_ tasted _ye_?"

I have no idea what a 'block of tablet' is, but her implications are thoroughly clear.

"A lady doesn't kiss and tell," I say, as neutrally as possible.

"Och, sae there's been kissin' then?" she says, hopefully.

I try, but I can't quite hold back a smirk. Kissing indeed! What Jamie and I have done might be called "kissing" in the same sense that a Skycity might be called a "personal transport vehicle".

Geillis sees my expression, interprets my silence, and crows aloud.

"Ooo, ye dinnae ken what a _relief_ that is tae me, pet," she grins, and loops her arm through mine, "I couldnae _believe_ the good God made a man like our Jammie tae be a celibate."

Now _that's_ a name of his I haven't heard. . .

"Jammie?"

"Aye, hasnae he towld ye? He has th'most _delicious_ initials. James Alexander Malcolm MacTavish. JAMM, for short, ye ken? All the girls in town call him Jammie Dodger - an' jus' _look_ at the wee strawberry biscuit!", she gestures at him, still half a field-width away from us, "'Tis a _perfect_ nickname, aye? Dinnae ye jus' wan'tae dunk him in yer tea? An' then nibble 'til ye cannae see straight?"

Well. . . actually, yes. Yes, I do. But I can hardly say that. Not here, not now, in this company. I fall back to a Skycity over-literal response.

"He doesn't like tea."

At this, Geillis gives me a very quick, very strange double-take that I decide to ignore.

"Besides," I continue, "I'd call his colouring cinnamon before I called it strawberry."

She sighs, "Aye, he's a grand red stag, tha's true enough."

I pull my arm away from hers, and plant my fists on my hips, "So he's a stag now too? Is there an _end_ to this. . . lascivious litany of yours?"

She jerks a long, shapely thumb in his direction, "When eet's _tha'_ great Viking god we're talkin' aboot? Nevar, pet. Nevar _evar_."

She hasn't been at all quiet this entire time, and as Jamie approaches us, she doesn't lower her voice in the least, "Ee's been heer three years now, with nary a _rumour_ of a lass - _oor_ a lad, oor whoe'er else he may care tae fancy, until taeday. Imagine it! Three _years_!"

"I've been heer _four_ years, Geillis, an' ye _ken I can hear ye_ , aye?" Jamie hands me the two specimen vials he's still carrying, and gestures for me to give him the three empty ones I'm holding.

"Aye, a bit of a waste if ye didnae, Jammie my lad!"

He puts the empty vials in his pocket, and draws himself to his full height, "It's yer _time_ yer wastin', Mrs. Duncan. _An'_ mine."

She blithely waves him off, "Wastin' time, he says! When I've been worrit sick fer ye, day and night an' all - bein' so deid scairt tha' all yer repression was goin' tae explode ye inta smithereens one o' these fine days!"

Jamie scoffs, shaking his head, an exasperated look on his face, "Small danger o' _that_."

"Och, aye, ye _were_ in danger of it laddie!" she shakes a finger at him, "An' eef ye had, where would us pore women be then?"

He rolls his eyes, "Ye'd be in t'same place ye were before, _Mrs._ Duncan. Marrit. Tae a man who _isnae me_."

He takes a step closer to her, bringing all his imposing bulk to bear while trying to make his point. She doesn't even seem to notice, pointing up at him and snapping like a tent flap in a gale.

"Aye. _Marrit_. No' _blind_."

"Well, ye soon _will be_ if ye dinnae take care."

"Aw, pish. Auld wives tales an' ancient grumblin' Catholics cannae keep me from enjoyin' meself."

"Och, aye? An' what aboot auld Arthur?"

"Aye, he's been known tae enjoy himself too, on occasion. What of it?"

"Agch, ye'er Hell's own handbasket, Geillis Duncan!" Jamie has finally raised his voice, but she only laughs.

"Now _that's_ a term fer it I havenae heard! Go on, then. I like how ye think."

" _Not_ that this isn't a _fascinating_ subject," I interrupt, desperately holding back my own frantic desire to laugh at their exchanges, "But Mr. MacTavish and I have a number of fields to test before we take our lunch break, and I _would_ very much like to at least _see_ the crop regulator today."

Slowly, Geillis concedes the battle, at least for the moment, crossing her arms and tossing her head like a naughty five-year-old, thwarted in her torment of a baby chicken.

"Och, _Mr._ MacTavish, is it? I hoop ye'ev been practicin' yer knot-tyin' techniques, Jammie, my lad - they may come in useful."

With this she winks, whirls, and strides off, back through the brush and into the woods.

We both stare after her, making good and sure she's gone before we say anything.

"Who. . . in the _world_ was that, Jamie?"

"Geillis Duncan," he says, flatly.

"So I gathered."

He sighs, "Local business owner, wife o' Cranesmuir's Procurator Fiscal, inveterate gossip. . . and reputed worshiper of every sex god and goddess Humankind has evar invented."

"Is that so?" I deadpan, "You astonish me."

He hands me back one of the empty vials, still warm from its sojourn in his pocket, "Go walk yer field, mo Sorcha. I'll meet ye back here."

The timeless, peaceful silence of these upper fields is doubly impressive after such a loud interruption. Back at the runabout, both of us are reluctant to break it.

The next five fields are each bounded on all four sides with low stone walls, a single gate opening onto each enclosure. They are smaller fields than common for Leoch, but they are also noted in the books as being some of the oldest under tilth here. For over six hundred years, these very plots of earth have produced wheat, barley, and oats - the staple grains of this land, the building blocks of its society, and the very props of its history.

Taking samples from them, I feel like some mystical blend of an archeologist and a surgeon, peeling back layers of time itself, to view the still-beating heart of a beautiful piece of living history - a rare, precious past, whose future has been placed in my hands.

I linger so long at the final field in this section, Jamie is waiting for me at the runabout, having finished walking all four walls long before I could pull myself away.

"I wonder how they've managed to keep this set of fields under plough," I say, dreamily gesturing at the long upper strip receding to our left as Jamie drives us to our final set of fields for today, "A tractor could barely fit through those narrower gates, let alone a seeder or a harvester."

Jamie smiles, "They dinnae use a tractor, Sassenach."

I look at him, questioning.

" _Horses_ , ye ken," he says, his eyes gently admonishing me, "A horse-drawn plough, seeder, harrow, an' all - _they_ can make it through those gates very well."

"Oh," I say, conjuring up in my memory several of the books on farming history I read in school. Yes. Horses _did_ used to play quite a role in farming, didn't they? "Well, that's more your township than mine."

"Township? Ye mean province?"

I blink, slightly surprised. This is essentially the first time I've got my idioms crossed ever since fixing the Rover. I consider that rather impressive, what with a two hundred year gap between me and everyone here. Thank heaven it was in Jamie's presence, and not Dougal's.

"Province. Yes, that is what I mean. But even so, I can't see how those fields make any profit. The effort put into them must very nearly equal anything got out of them."

"Ahh, but ye see, those fields grow gold an' silver, Sassenach," he says, his eyes twinkling.

I chuckle, "Gold and silver?"

"Aye, people rent them. Them an' the untilled sward between them an' the trees there," he says, pointing.

" _Rent_ them? Who?"

"Oh, that upper section has been very popular over the years. Movie directors, historians, experimental archaeologists, LARPer conventions, Ren Faire organizers, historical reenactors, tourists - it pays Colum tae jus' announce it whenever the horses will be doing anything at all in those fields. E'en if it's just a day's harrowin', like as no' more cameramen will show up than ye can shake a stick at. Put the ploughman in any one of a dozen period costumes, and his entire day's work could end up as b-roll in a score of television dramas - every second of which is owned by Leoch Farms, and ye can bet yer boots Colum exacts full payment for their use."

"Oh, I see." I'm unsure what "television" is, but what he means is clear enough.

Silence falls between us again. An uncomfortable silence, this time.

"Where did she appear from, Jamie?" I ask, knowing I don't need to explain who "she" is.

He shrugs, "There _is_ a path through the woods there that does connect up tae the road down tae Cranesmuir. It's a five minute walk from the path tae that corner field, if ye ken where ye'er going, a'course. But what she was doing there now, taeday, when she intended tae drive 'round tae deliver yer device anyway. . . I dinnae ken. Best no' tae ask, I expect."

We've pulled up at the last section of fields, and he makes to get out. I stop him, holding on to his shoulder with an intensity that surprises us both.

"You'll tell me if I ever go overboard like that, won't you Jamie?"

He blinks, "What are ye on about?"

"Well, you may not have noticed, but I do happen to like flirting with you," I look away from him, suddenly inexplicably ashamed of myself, " _And_ kissing you, and teasing you, and. . . " I stroke my hand across his nearest palm, combing my fingers though his, ". . . touching you. But I'll stop in a _minute_ if you ever feel uncomfortable, I hope you know tha-"

The rest of my words are lost in his jacket as he crushes me to his chest. One of his hands cups my head, and he speaks into the tangles of my hair.

"Th'lasses like me, Claire. So do more than a few lads. _And_ I ken what for." His fingers tighten and release against me, "But, ye ken the _real_ reason they call me Jammie Dodger is I'm always findin' ways to _avoid_ them, aye? I dinnae encourage it. Jus' the opposite. I dinnae like tae be _hunted_. Like as if my life were some manner of game fer some'un else tae play, wi' my pelt as the prize." He pushes me away just far enough that he can look in my eyes, "James Fraser has enough, and _more_ than enough of that tae deal with. Jamie MacTavish doesnae need it too."

I nod, "I know - I understand. That's what I _mean_ , Jamie. I don't want you to think I like you just because. . . I mean, I don't know that I'll _ever_ be. . . ready for. . . I don't know that I'll ever _want_. . . to. . ."

And, just like that, Time Traveler Claire comes out to play. I don't know what took her so long, but she arrives in my mind like a screeching, freezing storm, full of destructive winds and icy daggers. She is cold, cruel, brutal, and deeply, deeply honest.

How unfair is it of me, to offer _any_ thing at all to Jamie - sweet, kind soul that he is - when I have no idea how long I will be here? When I only stay here at Leoch specifically because I'm looking for something to do to improve the future, and then _go home_? How awful is it to have given him any part of myself? To expect any part of him in return?

 _What_ have I been thinking?

What on earth are we _doing_?

He's getting attached. _I'm_ getting attached.

I can't help it. . . he probably can't either.

I feel wretched. But. . . I can't stop now. . .

I am a terrible, _terrible_ person.

I try to fight back the scalding blush of shame that's overtaken me, "But that's no excuse, not if you feel like I'm. . . _playing_ with you."

"Well, are ye?" he says, practically.

"No! Not. . . like _that_." No. What I'm doing is far, far worse than merely leading you on, my lad. . . "But. . . but, I am. . ."

"Aye?"

I burrow back into his jacket front, "I _am_. . . having _fun_."

His arms go around me, and he speaks softly next to my ear, "An' does that make this jus' a game tae ye, then?"

"No."

No. This is not a game. This is a disastrous collision of worlds, destined to eventually explode both of us into atoms. Oh, Jamie. . . for two hundred years you've been dead, why did I have meet you _now_?

"An' d'ye still wan'tae be my girlfriend?"

"Yes."

Heaven help me, that's God's honest truth.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest, "Then have all the fun ye want, Sassenach."

I look up at him, "But. . . what about _you_?" I _have_ to give him an out. I must. He _has_ to have a chance to be free of me - to _stay_ free of me. . .

He laughs, sharply incredulous, "D'ye really think I'm no' having _fun_? D'ye seriously believe a man who's earned the name "Jammie Dodger" by avoiding lasses would spend as much time as I have wi' ye, if I didnae _want_ tae?"

"But. . . listening to her, Jamie, I realized that I. . . I have. . . from the minute I met you, I have. . ."

Give him the out, Beauchamp! Give him the best reason in the world to not want you anymore. Give him the chance to live his life, how he wants, in his own time. Do it now!

"Aye? Have what?"

"I've objectified you. Unashamedly stared at you. Touched you without permission. Thought about you like I have no right to do. . . when we. . . we might never even. . ."

And oh, my lad, my lad, that isn't even the half of it.

He smiles broadly, "So? Thoughts arenae actions. Consent can be non-verbal. It isnae like I've been complainin', now has it? An' if ye think ye'er the only one of us who may oor may no' have been struggling no' tae objectify. . ." he groans and curses roundly in Gaelic, "A plague on Geillis Duncan an' her gossipin' tongue! That she should have made ye feel like one of those silly lasses in Cranesmuir!"

If only that were all Geillis has brought upon me today. . .

He tangles his fingers in the hair behind my ears, and suddenly I am terrified of what he is about to say.

"Ye never jus' _look_ at me, Claire, ye. . . make me feel worth lookin' at. Like ye see something in me nae'un else evar has. Like ye. . . need me. . . an' like ye still would, e'en if I looked like auld Alec. Ye tease me like it doesnae matter that I've been thrown more lines than a ten pound salmon, or grabbed at so often I wilnae even go tae a pub anymoor, an' hardly dare wear my kilt in public. Ye talk to me like, _ifrinn_ , ye _kiss me_ like. . ."

"Yes?"

He is destroying me in more ways than I can count, but God forgive me, I don't want him to stop. . .

"Like this is moor than. . . just fun."

It isn't the answer he wants to give. It isn't the answer I want to hear.

But it's where we are, and I must deal with it.

I sigh deeply, heart torn in two hundred pieces, scattered across the years, "It _is_ more, Jamie. I just don't know how _much_ more, yet. . ."

Give him the out again, Beauchamp! Do it!

". . . but after four years on the run, I don't think I'd blame you if. . . if you wanted a sure thing. . ."

Because I'm very, _very_ not that, my lad. . . The only thing sure about me is heartbreak.

He runs the backs of his fingers over my cheekbone, "D'ye really think I havenae had a relationship in four years _jus'_ because I've been on the run? Nae. . . I've been waitin'. Jus' like any man of sense. Waitin' fer the right one tae take a chance on. That sort o' waitin'. . . it's worthwhile."

I'm screaming inside, with how wrong, how right, how impossible this all is. . . and how real, how perfect, how utterly, utterly _horrible_. . .

"So it doesn't bother you that you might. . . we might. . . wait. . . forever?"

Does forever count when one of us has already been dead for two centuries?

"Agch. A week is hardly forever, mo leannan. And look how far we'ev gotten in that time. There are promises between us, an' plans. That's _moor_ than enough, for now. We have time. There's nae need tae panic, and less need tae rush. And no need at _all_ tae listen tae _any_ thing Geillis Duncan says."

Promises and plans. Promises I _will_ keep. And plans I _will_ fulfill.

But after that. . . I will. . .

No.

No, no no no no.

My head whirls, like I've just stepped back from the edge of an abyss.

Maybe it makes me the worst person imaginable, but I can't give him up yet. Not just yet. It _has_ only been a week.

We have time. Surely, we have time.

Or I have time.

Or time has me. . .

With a great silent wrench of my heart, I banish Time Traveler Claire, and Girlfriend Claire reaches out to touch Jamie's cheek. I brush my thumb just under his eye, and let my fingers sweep around the curve of his ear, pushing back a fall of his curls at the same time. The easy, vibrant, _living_ feeling he always brings out in me wells up in my heart, and pours from my eyes, filling the space between us. The sharp, fiery blue of his own eyes soften as he looks at me, and he smiles with such a dear, sweet, homey glow to him, I know it would be worse than murder if I pushed him away from me now. . .

Damned if I do. Damned if I don't.

How can I choose between hell and hell?

And if those are my only choices, is it _so_ wrong to indulge in a little heaven on the way?

"And you'll tell me if I. . . overstep?"

"Aye. Jus' as I expect ye tae tell me if I do."

I raise my eyebrows, "I think I _have_ , actually. . ."

He laughs, softly, "Well, there we are, then," he nods at the waiting fields behind me, "Let's finish this, aye?"

I grab a bag of vials and follow him, already more finished than he has any notion of.

We walk these last plots in silence. It is a different kind of silence than has been between us yet. This is the silence of uncertainty. Of doubt. Of wavering, underlying, niggling fear.

I hate it. But there's not much I can do about it, except pray, wordlessly, fervently, to whatever gods may or may not exist.

The last vials are labeled, and set safely in the bed of the runabout, when I finally think of something I can say aloud.

"Can _I_ drive back to the barn, Jamie?"

"A'course," he gestures at the pilot seat, "Heer. Take minute tae sort yerself."

I hop in. And he's right. It takes a few minutes for me to figure out the controls, and how my hands and feet and head must interact with them. But after that, it's easy, the tiny electric engine humming as we skirt along the grey lines of fencing that lead off into the distance, towards house and barn and garage. . .

There is still a sting of doubt between us. An acidic flavour of worry and shame.

Our only chance is to talk past it.

"Why don't you like to drive, Jamie?"

He shrugs, "Och, driving's no' so bad. Only it pales in comparison tae ridin', ye see."

"Riding?"

"Horses, ye ken."

"Oh. That does make sense."

He nods, and subsides back into silence.

Well, so much for Attempt One. Now for Attempt Two.

"So, are you ever going to tell me about your third brother?"

"Ian?" he grunts, "What about him?"

"Well, you've told me about two of the three "venturesome lads" you grew up with, and I'm curious about the third, is all."

"Oh." He smiles warmly, clearly thinking fondly of past years, "Ian Murray - our next-door neighbor's lad. But he used tae spend more time wi' Bobby an' me then ever he did at home. An' with Rob too, when he came along. But Ian's only four months older than me, an' so t'was natural we'd stick taegether like burrs. Bobby took tae him grand too, and Rob looked up tae all of us, but tae me. . . weel Ian an' I were like pups from t'same litter. We ken each other, aye?"

I nod.

"'There is a friend tha' sticks closer than a brother'," he quotes, "That's us. Oor a'least it was us lads." He chuckles a bit, "He _hated_ my sister."

"Oh?"

He grins, slyly, "Aye, an' it was mutual. So mutual, in fact, that finally they decided tae get married."

"Oh? _Oh_." I laugh, "I see! _That_ kind of hate."

"Aye. Five years ago, that was. Their wedding was jus' about th'last time I was hoome. . ." he shakes his head, forcefully refusing to be melancholy, "So now I say I grew up wi' three brothers - because Ian is, and doubly so."

"That's so sweet."

"Och! I almost forgot tae tell ye!" He pulls a personal info-screen out of his inner jacket pocket, "I got some _stunnin'_ video of the wee fox kits, Sassenach. There were three, no' two, and speakin' o' sweet. . ." He taps away at the touch-screen, "If ye tell me yer comm number, I'll send ye a data link."

"I don't have a comm, Jamie," I say, quietly.

"Ye dinnae have a _comm_? Erry'un has a comm!"

"Well, I don't. You were there when Murtagh brought me in. What you saw is what I have - save by the grace of Colum ban Campbell Mackenzie. . ."

"Och, _aye_ , a'coorse. I forgot. The Watch."

I blink. I can't say yes - that would be a lie. I can't say no - I've already told him the story I told Colum, before we made our promise of truth. Denying it now would only bring more awkwardness into a situation already hopelessly complicated. And if I say nothing, it looks odd.

But what _can_ I say?

"I. . . just need to get a new one," I say, finally, with a little too much haste.

"Aye. . ." he nods, looking at me a bit strangely. But, he lets the moment pass, thankfully. "Dinnae fash. It'll keep."

Silence falls again.

With his usual easy physicality, he leans sideways a bit, and puts an arm around me. I inhale sharply and flinch away from him like I never have before. He jerks his arm back and pounds the bench-seat between us.

"All right now, stop the car!"

I do, but the sharpness in his voice makes me jump, and I twist the little runabout into a skid, sliding us a few meters sideways before coming to a stop.

He doesn't even deign to notice.

He turns to me, a harder, more demanding look on his face than I've seen from him yet, "Now, Claire. I ken ye dinnae kno' me like ye'd prefer, sae let me tell ye - I'm stubborn as a mule, _and_ as thick-skulled, or worse. I ha' the de'il's oon temper, an' a tendency no' tae ken my own strength when I'm riled. I c'n be a possessive, jealous, selfish bastard sometimes, an' I dinnae always think with my brain, I admit. But I have my pride, an' by God, a fair notion o' justice." He grips me firmly by the shoulders, "Sae ye'ed best believe me when I tell ye, _ye'er goin' tae tell me what's wrong_ \- an' if ye say 'nothing', I swear, I'll no' apologize for what I doo next."

His grip on me tightens so much I flinch again. He lets go of me then, the look on his face not softening, but giving me time, and space, and the chance to think.

I desperately compose myself, brace my hands against his chest, and look him full in the face.

"She broke the spell, Jamie."

He nods, "Aye, that she did."

"The spell that was. . . shielding us. . . from. . ."

I have to say it, and I can't. I have to let him go, and I can't.

"I have a mountain of a secret, Jamie," I whisper.

"Aye," he strokes one of my hands, tenderly, "I noo."

Of course he does. He's nobody's fool. I brought up secrets this morning, when we agreed to truth. No one would do that unless they had a secret. Or many.

"It's the kind of thing that. . . that I can't tell _any_ one. It. . . looms over me. Most of the time. Yesterday in your workshop you. . . distracted me from it, a little. Or, maybe it was the threat of a depressive episode that distracted me, and you distracted me from _that_ ," I laugh, humourlessly, "There was a lot of distraction, anyway."

"Ye really cannae tell me?" He grips my hand much like he did my first day here. Reassuringly.

I shake my head, "No. Maybe someday. Maybe. But not now. It. . . it's. . . the kind of thing that. . . comes between me and other people." I dig my fingers into his jacket, "When she broke the spell, it all came back. To loom over me again." I turn away from him, hoping he won't notice the shame in my eyes, "So there it is. Between us."

"An' sae now ye'er afraid."

He says it so softly, hearing it shouldn't be a shock. But it is. Adrenaline courses though me, and I snap my eyes back to his.

" _Yes_ ," I hiss, "Of. . ." I reach out and cup his jaw, running my fingers through his curls, just like I wanted to that first morning I awoke in his arms, "Of. . . hurting you."

The kiss is wilder, more desperate, more insistent and demanding than any kiss I've ever been given before. He takes my breath, my mouth, and all my rational thoughts, plummeting me into a place in my soul I've never been to before, not even with Frank. A dark, burning, sweet-scented place, primal and luxurious. Voluptuous. Seductive. . .

When he finally pulls back, I'm a wreck. A Skycity, crashed into the radioactive ocean of him, hopelessly lost.

"Fifteen," he growls, gripping my hair, "An' did ye really think I didnae ken _at all_ what I getting inta wi' ye? The strength of it? The _risk_ of it? Why do ye think I didnae come near ye for almost a week? I was. . . for two days I was terrified of myself - the things I thought of doin', for yer sake! It took two whole days for me get myself under a wee bit o' control. . ." He half-smiles, ruefully, "An' then I thought tae give ye some more time tae settle in - time tae get used tae things heer, wi'out me. . ." he moves his mouth over mine again, making me gasp, " _Distractin'_ ye. . ." His expression darkens, eyes tightening, "Only then, Murtagh told me what Dougal was doin' tae ye an'. . . an' I felt. . ." he pulls my forehead to his, "I felt _aggrieved_ , Claire. _Wronged_. Like someone had. . . _profaned_ what was mine. _Mine_."

I know I should feel indignant at such a declaration. But I have no idea what I _am_ feeling at the moment. . .

"An' I ken I had no right at all tae feel like that, an' even now I don't. Ye belong tae yerself, always have," he lets go of my hair, "But ye ken what my feelin' like that means, don't ye?"

I shake my head, "No."

"It means that _nothing_ can come between us, Claire. I dinnae mean nothing will try. I dinnae mean we won't _let_ things come between us now and again. But we _have something_ , an' it's stronger than those things."

"Are. . ." I swallow, "Are you sure?"

His lips twist, almost sneering.

"I'm certain Dougal must think ye'er a spy. Are ye?"

"No."

"Are ye a murderer? Or accused? On the run, like me?"

"No."

"Are ye sick? Wastin' away? Dyin'?"

"No."

"An' ye arenae secretly the Queen of Belgium oor summat like that?"

I shake my head, beginning to be bewildered, "Not to the best of my knowledge. . ."

"Alrigh', then are ye a changeling? A witch? A fairy?"

I half-laugh, "No."

"A selkie? A water-horse?"

I laugh fully, " _No_! What. . . ?"

"Then I cannae think what there could be that we couldnae weather," he cradles my head again, and runs a thumb across my lips, "I may no' ken what we _are_ , exactly, but I _do_ ken that I. . . Claire, it. . . it isnae about. . . mo chridhe, it doesnae matter if we nevar. . ." he sighs, and leans his forehead against mine, "It's about _being together_ , aye?"

"Spell or no spell?"

"Spell or no spell."

"No matter the obstacles?"

"No mattar at _all_."

"You like me that much?"

He grins and shakes his head, "Aye. I like ye that much, Claire Beauchamp."

I start the runabout again. After I get us straightened out, I take his hand, and hold it all the way back to the barn.

We are in so much trouble. So much. But if he's willing to take the risk, then I'm willing to brave the pain. Maybe it won't be so bad. We're both strong. Maybe we can both survive this. Maybe we can both make it through. . .

And maybe I'm still given to wishful thinking.

But it's all I have. . .

There is quite a commotion waiting for us back at the Manager's Barn. Two large vans, and about eight or nine smaller vehicles are parked in a haphazard line from the guest wing of the house, all the way past the kitchen gardens, right up next to the manager's garage. There are at least a score of people milling about the cars, shifting and unpacking all manner of luggage.

"That's Gwyllyn Pritchard's van," says Jamie, pointing at the larger of the two maroon-and-gold painted buses, "He's lead singer of The Cuckoos In The Grove, ye ken. They're a day or two early."

I pull the runabout up to the lab entrance of the barn, and get out to open the large roll-up door.

"Gwyllyn? That doesn't sound Scottish."

"He isnae. He's Welsh. Married tae a Scottish lass, though."

"Oh."

The door growls as it opens, and creaks to a halt. I reach inside and grab us two of the cart-tables, so we can start unloading the bags of sample vials.

"An' what's wrong wi' his bein' Welsh?"

"Nothing, of course. I just expected a Scottish band would have a Scottish lead singer," I shrug, "Live and learn."

"Colum's proud he's Welsh. Somethin' tae doo with harps an' bards an' the Middle Ages, I dinnae ken. An' I dinnae much care, either, tae be honest. His music is good tae listen tae - tha's all that matters tae me." He puts the last bag of vials on his cart.

"Excellent philosophy, in my opinion."

We've just finished transferring the bags to the refrigerated drawers beneath the analysis station, when a loud peal of laughter comes from the office, and a second later, an even louder and very impatient Geillis comes whirling into the lab.

" _Heer_ ye twa luvbirds are! Been talkin' tae Mrs. Pritchard while I waited fer ye. Ye _were_ an _awful_ long time. Did ye hafta christen evary field oon t'way back, oor was it jus' one, an' ye were goin' fer some kind o' reacord?"

Jamie sighs, and shakes his head at this, not giving her any other answer.

"I'll see ye on Friday," he says, turning to me. He pats my shoulder, and is back out to his runabout and gone before Geillis can say anything else.

"Weel!" she quips, with an extended drawl, "I ken when _I've_ been snubbed!" Then she laughs, as though even this is most hilarious thing Jamie could have possibly done.

I've never met anyone quite so _relentlessly_ Scottish as this. The people I met on Cold Island 12 were far different from anyone I'd ever met on a Skycity, of course, and their modes of speech were unique, but they were nowhere near this forceful about it. Even in this time period, with its heavier accents and much more liberal use of Gaelic, Geillis stands out. Dougal purposefully dials it back most of the time. Jamie maintains a fairly even balance between a charming, accessible burr, and his broad, free-rein brogue. In speech, Colum is a mixture of the two, probably because he hand-picks every turn of phrase to present the most impressive face to the outside world as possible. Mrs. Fitz's speech is formal, but accessible. Annie's is a bit rough and hard for me to follow, but she's too cheerful for her meaning to be at all mysterious. Willie and Geordie's speech is of a more haphazard type, Angus and Rupert's is more casual, Murtagh. . . Murtagh baffles me a bit. With words, he is as deliberate as Colum, as cunning as Dougal, as kind and as open-hearted as Jamie, and. . . yes, _just_ as relentless as Geillis. But all of it is tempered with something else - a gruff, blunt something that, in reality, isn't at all rough or unrefined. I haven't spent enough time around him to identify just what it is yet. But it's clearly not the same thing as whatever is up with Geillis. Her mode of speaking is so immediate, so present, so in-your-face. . . It's untempered. Over-the-top. It gives her a juvenile, almost childish presence, even though she is clearly nothing of the kind.

Just who _is_ this woman?

She stops laughing, plants her hands on her hips, and grins at me, "Weel, dinnae stand thear gawpin', pet. Come an' see th' wee crop regulator."

She flounces out of the lab, unquestioningly assuming that I'll follow her.

Which, of course, I do.

"Wee" turns out to be a _highly_ inaccurate term for the crop regulator. It's a behemoth of thing, so wide it's just barely able to fit into the large gap left between the tractors and the maintenance trucks. It looks like something straight out of Core Township - all pipes and tanks and sensor towers and gauges and dials.

But, for all that, it also looks _familiar_. A few days testing it out, and I'm certain I'll get the hang of it.

"Can ye e'en _work_ this wean, Claire, pet?" Geillis asks, leaning up against a nearby tractor as I survey the regulator from every side.

"Oh, yes," I say, "The last lab I worked at was testing new algorithms for a machine not unlike this one."

"An' ye a farmar!" she snorts.

"Botanist, actually."

"Agch, an' sae what was a _botanist_ dooin' testin' oot a gurt sleekit pile like this'un?"

I smile, and scoff a little, "I wasn't there testing regulators - I was making root vegetable hybrids that could withstand a more acidic growing environment - our projects overlapped in the testing phase."

She makes a low muffled sound, but says nothing. This is sufficiently out of character that I look over at her. She has both hands clapped over her mouth, and is red from suppressed laughter.

"What?" I ask, genuinely baffled.

"Och, sorrae, pet. Eet's jus'. . . ye make eet sae _easy_ tae tease ye."

"What did I say?"

"Ne'r'mind," she shakes her head, getting herself under control, "Doo ye ha' any machine tha' c'n pull this beast? It took my four-wheeler jus' tae get eet heer, an' I wouldnae like tae think o' it oot in the fields twenty-foor se'en wi' it."

"Well, that tractor you're leaning on has a hybrid-plasma drive. That ought to do the trick, don't you think?" I pull off my jacket and scarf, and roll up my sleeves, "But you're right. It could use a bit of a checkup first."

I shoo her back a bit, and open the bonnet of the 2071 John Deere 811 Liger. A fine machine, I have no doubt. But I've only rarely worked on an electric/plasma hybrid engine before, and never this one specifically. I survey it rapidly, trying to get my bearings. One of my hands is hovering over the front grating, and as I turn away to go get a multi-tool, my fingers get too close to the edge of metal. A sharp, popping 'zap!' of static electricity jolts my hand, making me jump, and cry out.

Geillis raises her eyebrows, "Och. Tha's some good ley power ye have thear."

I shake my hand, trying to dispel the painful tingling ache, "Lay power? What's that?"

She shakes her head, slowly, "No' 'lay', pet. 'Ley'. It's the power of th'earth, an' of oor connection too it. Ye must'ha drawn some up when ye were oot walkin' the fields taeday."

"Hm. Suppose I must have." I'm not really paying attention to her. I stomp back to the worktables and grab a toolbox, a can of WD-40, and the nearest multi-tool.

"Aye. Ye ken, they used tae say that if ye were a channel fer the ley, it meant ye were a witch."

I laugh, "As far as I can see, _anything_ used to make you a witch, Geillis." I select a spanner, and get to work on the tractor engine, "Too good a cook? Witch. Too many kids? Witch. Not enough kids? Witch. Too beautiful? Too ugly? Too smart? Too simple? Witch! Witch! Burn the witch! It's just another word for systemic oppression. All the magic and stuff was just the excuse - a convenient story for the powerful to tell while they exploited the weak."

Geillis crosses her arms and looks at me with a thoroughly unreadable expression on her face.

"Aye, mebbe so."

Then, her eyes light up with a thought, "Bu' tha's mus' mean tha' the _real_ witches were th'ones whoo got away wi' it!"

I laugh loudly for a minute, and then shrug, "Well, it can't hurt to think so."

"Ye dinnae believe in magic, then?"

"I prefer things that don't need me to believe in them. Real things. Things that _work_."

"Ye dinnae think magic _works_ , pet?"

A vision of the stones of Craigh na Dun dances before me. But even they aren't _magic_. . . not really.

Right?

"Not as such, no. But, now you mention it, it _is_ rather impossible to be here, in this place, and not see something magical about it. Every day, every minute, something. . . not _quite_ ordinary happens."

She grins, fondly, "Aye, Scotland is ri' oot o' th'storybooks, pet."

I shake my head, "No. That kind of magic is nothing like what's in the storybooks. No spells, no magic words, no robed figures with magic wands, no potions, no enchanted weapons. It's just an everyday indication that. . . well, there are things greater than us in this world."

"An' no mistake," she says, fervently.

I've never seen her face this serious.

All of a sudden, something about her seems eerily familiar again. . .

I reach into the toolbox for a different spanner. She gives a strange, quiet, strangled cry, and leaps towards me, pointing, "Wha's _tha'_?"

For a second I think she's pointing at the engine, and I'm at a loss to explain her reaction.

But then I see. She's pointing at the crook of my elbow, where I have a narrow, bean-shaped scar. All that remains of the AR-gel dialysis procedure all Skycity-born children undergo between the ages of two and five, before their white blood cells can adapt to the increased levels of radiation we all must live with in the future. . .

"Oh. . . that? That's a medical scar."

"Doesnae _look_ like a medical scar," she looks up at me, her expression not at all teasing, "Can I ask wha' ye had?"

"Uhm. . ." I flounder for a second, "I. . . can't really remember. I was so young when it happened. Something to do with the kidneys, I think. Sorry."

Her brows draw together, "Nae need tae be sorry, my lamb."

Her choice of endearment brings me up short.

My Lamb. . .

Lamb. . .

And then, it strikes me.

All the crude humour, all the innuendo - the over-done Scottish accent, the flamboyant body language. . . it's _armour_.

Strip that away, and. . .

And she's a completely different person.

Thinking of her in that light, all at once it is clear, who she reminds me of. Why her presence sparked such deja-vu. The signs are only there in a few of her words and vocal cadences, and one or two of her gestures and expressions, but they're unmistakable. It's very subtle, and they don't appear every time, but now that I've noticed them, they're as plain as day. A certain emphasis on the long 'e' that's just a bit different than the rest of the Scots I've met here. Occasionally a slightly less round 'r'. How long she holds vowels at the ends of words. A tilt to her head, a motion she makes with her fingers while talking. . . None of it obvious, and nothing in any way bad or alarming. Nothing even strange. Just different. Slightly. So slight, I almost didn't notice.

I'm sure the similarity is unintended and unconscious. It can't possibly _be_ anything else.

And of course, the age difference obscures things quite a bit. . .

But.

Behind her gossipy, raunchy exterior, Geillis Duncan has a look about her, a _feel_ to her. . . there's no doubt about it.

She reminds me, quite distinctly, of _Mrs. Graham_.

The housekeeper whose Name is Chaos. . .

Before I can work out even the slightest implications of this, she is grinning and voluble again, and says, "Weel, pet, eet's high time I was off. Nae rest fer us workin' weemen, aye?"

"Not much, no."

"Bu' mos' like I'll see ye Friday night, aye? I allus come ower tae see the Cuckoos when they'ar heer. Ye'll be thear?"

"Oh, yes, I'll be there," I say, abstractedly.

"Ri'. Weel then. Eet's a date!" She winks and smiles wryly, whirls, and is gone.

I put down my spanner and look after her for a long while.

Yes. It's a date. With, apparently, _all_ of my devils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ViBvh6lfvaw&list=PLkq7oHUcA_W0swCPTsNpQIrgM8jzvnmGh&index=4
> 
> "Mo leannan" - my sweetheart


	30. Gift Of Words

I don't see Jamie for the next three days.

But, the first morning, a small paper bag arrives on my desk, via a blushing, grinning Willie. The bag contains a single, brilliantly yellow rose, a piece of black cardstock, and a short note -

_You said we'd figure things out. You were right. Stare at the rose for ten seconds, then look at the card. - J_

Smiling fondly, I do so. After ten seconds, an afterimage hovers on the little piece of black paper. It is a perfect replication of the rose.

In Stygian Blue.

The image wavers as my eyes water for some reason. I hurriedly scrawl a note to Mrs. Fitz, and send Willie to the main house with it, telling him it's urgent. When he gets back, I tell him to wait, and I take what he brought with him into my little break room to organize it. I fill one small plastic bag with instant coffee crystals, one with powdered chocolate, and one with brown sugar. I quickly write my mother's favorite mocha recipe - the only coffee based drink I've ever been known to willingly consume - on one scrap of paper, and a very short note on another.

_I'm figuring things out too. - C_

I fold the two pieces of paper together, tuck them and the baggies into the same paper bag Jamie sent me, and hand it all to Willie, telling him to deliver it to Jamie at the stables, on the double.

The poor boy makes for a rather unimpressive Cupid, but no one could ask for a more willing and cheerful Mercury.

He returns with a small potted Wintergreen plant, and a very confused look on his face.

"Jamie said it 'tasted like penance', Miss Claire," he says, doubtfully, "I dinnae ken wh-" he breaks off as I laugh, then gestures with the clay jar he's holding, "Sae where would ye like this, then?"

I pat the surface of the desk right next to me, and don't stop smiling for the rest of the day.

The second morning, a bright yellow carnation is waiting for me. I send Willie to the stables with a packet of Jammie Dodgers I discreetly got from Mrs. Fitz the night before.

The third morning, there is a box on my desk containing a small, sleek, brand-new info-screen, and next to it, a comm radio, and a charging cube for both. There is a one-word note stuck to the screen.

 _Nerd_.

When I turn it on, I find that a video has already been downloaded onto the info-screen. It is of three tiny fox kits playing with each other. I watch it a dozen times, unable to look away.

My heart clutches at every movement they make. I've already named them William, Rob, and Ian. . .

This requires a response far more meaningful than ironic food.

I spend three hours rummaging about and compounding things in the lab, and two more cursing under my breath as I remember exactly _how many_ years it's been since I took calligraphy classes.

Eventually, with my improvised pen-nib, spatters of the unholy concoction I decided to call ink, and at least twenty ruined pieces of paper scattered around me, I take a look at my final result.

_Dear Jamie,_

_I haven't your gift for words. You always seem to say the right thing, simply, with a sense of deliberation and care that leaves me envious, honestly. Too often, I think far better than I speak, and I feel far more than I express. To me, words are either quick and shallow - fully meant, but multi-purpose - like fallen leaves spread across exposed roots, or they are long, slow-maturing things, hard-won, and often hidden beyond even my own reach for much of their lives, like seeds buried too deep._

_Even now, my words come slowly to the page, far slower than they ought, after being laboured over, and changed a dozen, two dozen times before what you see here. And still I fear I am being a clumsy, oafish Outlander, taking a hundred words to say what might be better said in ten._

_But if I envy you your eloquence, I am also thankful for it._

_I could not let another minute pass without setting this down in black and white -_

_You, James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, are, and have been since the moment I met you, the most extraordinary, desired, and welcome presence in my life. I thank you, with all I have left of me._

_I fear I have not given you half the appreciation you deserve, my dear friend. I am like a starving person given fine food, who does not comment on the delicate flavours, only blesses the giver for mere salvation._

_I have been desperately lonely, Jamie. To live only on memories is to slowly freeze oneself to death. For the past eight years I have done little but lose - people, things. . . hope. To have a person now, one who gives me things I need, things I like, and believes in me unquestioning, and without terms, is in itself a gift far beyond any I have ever deserved._

_I trust you will take these words as meant - as the only things of true substance I have to give you, poor return though they may be, for all you have granted me._

_I hope you will accept them, and a small token of my regard,_

_Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp_

_"It is the time you have wasted that makes your rose so important."_

_P.S. You were so passionate over your favourite colour, but you never said which was your favourite shade. So this probably isn't it._

Below this, there is a clipped ringlet of my hair, stuck down with a small blob of candle wax.

Well then. . .

I read it over, one more time. For a thank-you note, it's drastically overdone. And for a love letter, it's pitiful. Just what _is_ this thing I have laboured over?

Something about that strikes true to me, though. Neither of us have any idea what _we_ are, why should our gifts be any different?

I shrug. If he likes me enough to walk through cowshit-scented fields all day, he likes me enough to get past my awkward declarations of esteem.

He's also smart enough to notice that nowhere did I mention the word "love". I haven't said it at all, yet. I've barely even thought it.

Of course, he hasn't said it either. . .

And at the moment, I'm unfathomably grateful for that. We're complicated enough at this stage. . .

I roll up my letter like a scroll, wrap a few lengths of copper wire around it to hold it closed, and take the manager's runabout to his workshop myself. He's out, like I knew he would be, at this time of day. I leave it on a workbench where I'm sure he'll see it.

On Friday morning, I spend several hours with Annie, going through clothes, debating shoe choices, and learning a great deal about cosmetics. She makes me promise that we will go shopping in Cranesmuir before the Yuletide Gathering. I finally make it to the lab after lunch. My progress on the soil chem tests is quite a ways behind where I wanted to be by now - no surprise, really - and so I don't even go into my office until I'm just about ready to leave, so I can prepare for the concert. My mind is very much focused on tonight, and so I almost miss it, but as I go to turn off the lights in the office toilet station, I see it.

Near the middle of my desk, there is a very small, flat box, covered in black and gold paper. Inside are four chocolate truffles, each decorated with stamped gold leaf in the shape of a Tudor rose.

Atop them is a small card, bearing three little words, hand-written in golden ink.

_It is now._


	31. Round Table

Entering the Great Hall at Leoch feels like stepping back in time.

Again.

The smooth flagstone floor echoes under my footsteps, wide and cold and solid. I haven't been in a room of this size since Frank and the rest of Decon Team 7 received commendations from the Mayor. Town Hall is one of the great spaces of Central Township - a cathedral in white metal and copper plating, enormous staircases, and etched glass walls surrounding a central amphitheater and stage.

Leoch's Great Hall is nothing so grandiose, nor is it nearly as large, but it has a rough, timeless beauty to it that paradoxically dates it firmly in the Middle Ages. It is a place right out of a storybook. The walls are whitewashed stone, the roof great golden beams of wood. The deep balcony that lines three of the walls is made of rough wooden planks and unvarnished wood pillars. The upper railing there is of black wrought iron, as are the chains that hold aloft three great wheels of short, fat candles, to flicker below the sweeping wooden curve of the vaulted ceiling. I have no idea when this house was built, but if this room had been the first place I'd seen after coming though the stones of Craigh na Dun, I probably would have concluded I'd Traveled back to before Columbus discovered his few Caribbean islands.

If Leoch's dining room is all crystalline fairy elegance, then its Great Hall is the stern, functional beauty of the Kings of Men.

The wide middle space of the room is filled with two long columns of trestle tables. They are built of uncovered boards - they and the benches that surround them. All have been worn smooth by time, and stained with the signs of much eating and drinking, but I see no indication that they have ever been polished or painted, though each one has been scrupulously cleaned. They are lined up facing straight on, to give the best view of the stage at one end of the hall.

Actually, I don't know if I should call it a stage or a dais. Three shallow steps lead up to it, and a large draped tapestry covers most of the wall behind it. A High Table, or a throne or two, or a troupe of actors could reside on it equally well, but, at the moment, it is empty. Just in front of it, there is a wide gap left between the steps and where the tables begin, leaving a large empty space at this end of the room.

I have entered near this dais, or stage, and I quickly take in the large rectangle of what must be the dance floor. Then, I walk down one of the long sides of the room, staying underneath the large balcony overhang. This side is lined with couches and softly cushioned chairs, low tables, and here and there what look like huge pillar candles on massive bronze candlesticks over a meter tall. But, on closer inspection of one, I see that the candles are plastic facsimiles, and their flames are small flickering bulbs, hidden by the faux-wax walls. I veer closer to the supper tables for a minute, and look up at the three huge wheels of candles glowing in the air above me, and wonder if they are electric too.

They probably are.

Strange, the intersections of old and new in this place.

Across the room, the opposite under-balcony space is filled with a long line of tables already overflowing with food. Our supper, being laid out buffet-style. I can smell a great deal of it from here - sauces and stews, toasted bread, and roasted meat. There is occasional movement from that side of the room, as one or more of the kitchen staff bring bowls and trays and pots in and out, but other than this, the room is almost entirely devoid of life.

I'm early. Very.

The reason why is standing behind the long wooden bar-counter that takes up half of the rear wall's under-balcony. Or rather, not standing - _bustling_ \- mixing drinks, slicing fruit, filling trays with glasses, and filling glasses with finished drinks.

Jamie texted me an hour ago, saying that their usual bartender, Mr. Cooper, was sick, and that he, Jamie, had been asked to fill in for him. He apologized that he would not be able to pick me up at my door, and asked for me to meet him here, just as soon as I was ready. I texted back, teasing him about how unconventional all our dates seem to be. He sent back a glif of a man shrugging, and I sent him a glif of a cartoon cat saying 'U O Me, Mr. Fancypants'. He sent back a laughing face, the words "Oh, most certainly", and a winking face.

I had smiled at that, put down the info-screen, and went to take a shower, feeling something small, subtle and important shifting in my heart.

Here, now, in this room, I realize what it was.

For the first time, I feel like I belong at Leoch.

It isn't just that I have an info-screen again, nor that I can communicate with Jamie more easily, it's the timeless, yet certain nature of things here.

Am I in 2078? 1742? 1409? It doesn't seem to matter. Jamie's here, I'm here, and this room is about to be filled with people. Ordinary people, living the ordinary lives of their time, eager to be fed and entertained. And finally, I feel like I'm _part_ of it all. Not one of them, not that yet - but at least equal to the task of getting to know them - no matter how much work it is undoubtedly going to be.

As I get closer to the back of the room, Jamie looks up from his blender and lemon-zester, and cheerfully waves me over. I take a seat at one of the tall stools, and smile at him while he fills a tray of glasses with something pink and frothy and fruity-smelling.

He grins at me, "Ah, there ye are, Sassenach. Be wi' ye in a moment, aye?" He puts the heavy tray on the bartop, and dings a hidden bell. A woman in kitchen-staff livery appears, and hoists the tray across the room to the long line of tables containing our supper.

He comes over to where I'm sitting, and sets a small bowl filled with strawberries in front of me, "Heer, have some. There isnae enough for another batch, we may as well eat them." He pops one in his mouth before turning back to his pitchers and bottles and measuring cups. He starts compounding something out of ice and mint and rum, and what I think may be limes, I'm not sure.

I follow his smooth, purposeful motions with my eyes, drinking in the sight of him. He looks simply astonishing tonight, in a cool grey formal jacket, black dress shirt, and grey and lavender striped tie. The colours vibrate next to the pale warmth of his skin and the deep red of his hair, while the rough texture of his stubble contrasts strikingly with the clean lines of the rest of him.

I could look at him for hours.

Or, preferably, _kiss_ him for hours. . .

Three days apart is much more than I ever want to endure again. Slowly, I pick up a berry, and bite into it. I haven't tasted anything so good in a long while. Nor so rare.

He may have sent me gilded chocolates, but to me, fresh fruit is the real edible gold.

I doubt he'll ever know just how much his easy generosity with food means to me. He certainly can't understand what it means that _I_ have sent _him_ food - and frivolous, empty-calorie food, at that. On Skycity 15, sending someone anything edible is always significant. And sending someone sweets is just short of asking them to marry you. Even people who can afford it don't send such things to just anyone. He'll never know what a grand gesture it is, to casually hand someone a bowl of fruit, like it's _nothing_. That he lives in a time and place of abundance does not lessen the impact to me.

Jamie cares about me. I care about him.

We both know that much - each about the other.

And at the moment, that's enough.

When the tray of mint and rum drinks are finished, he hoists them to the bartop, and rings the bell again. As soon as a kitchen worker takes them, he looks over at me, smiles, scoops up one of my hands, and kisses my fingertips. My heart leaps at the touch.

"Ye look bonny taenight," he says, going over to a washing basin and wiping down the three plastic cutting boards he's been slicing fruit on.

"Oh, this old thing?" I say, teasingly.

"Aye, that auld thing," he says, eyes twinkling, "It suits ye."

My dress isn't anything unique, and the style, Annie said, was from nearly ten years ago. Ancient, in her estimation. It had been crammed in the very back of her closet - a simple, high-waisted gown of some soft, stretchy material, with elbow-length sleeves, conservative neckline, and full, floor-length skirt. It's almost completely unadorned - one black satin ribbon around the waist, that knots into a bow at the side - that's all. But, it is a beautiful colour - a rich, deep, Merlot-toned crimson, purple-muted, mellow and smooth. I couldn't see it and not want to wear it, and, despite Annie's protests, after I had tried it on, we both agreed it should have a new home in my closet.

"Well, thank you. I do still love red, you know."

I reach out my hand, and he briefly tangles his fingers with mine, pressing our palms together. "Duly noted, Sassenach."

He meets my eyes, and the look in them makes me want to forget tonight, supper, concert and all, drag him to the nearest reasonably private location, and find out just how long we can go without oxygen. . .

That wouldn't help you learn how to be in public with him, now would it, Beauchamp? Get your mind out of the sugar-house!

"You're not looking all that terrible yourself, my lad," I say, deliberately understating matters to preserve my own sanity.

"Ah, what fulsome praise from my lady fair," he says, dryly teasing. He pulls his hand away, and continues to wash up, "How e're shall I find it in me tae speak more handsomely of ye than ye do of me, mo nighean donn?" He takes off his soiled apron, and puts on a clean one, "Did ye get my note?"

This last is said very quietly, with a waver of something deeper and warmer in his tone.

"I did," I say, in a similar tone, thinking of the small box sitting on my dressing table at this very moment, and the fact that it only contains _three_ chocolates now. "The truffles are amazing, by the way. No one's ever sent me chocolates before."

He pauses in the middle of sharpening a knife, "Ye'er _kidding_. . ."

I shake my head, "Nope."

"No' even _Frank_?" He puts the knife down heavily, and looks slightly frantic with disbelief, almost as if there must have been something _wrong_ with Frank for not sending me hideously expensive luxury sweets. . .

Oh.

Of _course_ chocolate is easier to obtain here, but it hadn't occurred to me that it might be a _common_ gift.

Oops.

I smile, a little uncomfortably, and put down a strawberry without eating it. I can't tell him that Frank could never _afford_ so rare a commodity as chocolate. . .

"No. . . we. . . didn't generally give gifts like that."

He blinks, "Like. . . _candy_?"

"No, like _any_ perishable food," I say, pointedly nodding at the bowl of strawberries, "I mean, he took me on dates, bought me dinner and such, dessert sometimes, but he never _sent_ me sweets, or fruit or anything. He was more. . . practical, I suppose."

Jamie shakes his head, "An' _nae'un_ else. . . ?"

"No," I run my eyes fondly up the taut lines of his neck, to the thick clusters of his curls, still dark from a recent shower, and barely tamed with condition-holder, "But I don't mind you being my first."

His eyes snap to mine at that, shoulders frozen, spine rigidly upright. Then, his posture softens, and he slides closer to me, gently smirking, "Ye'er jus' lucky my kind of girl is one who's impressed by chocolates, and no' even interested in where we got strawberries in _November_ , an' in Scotland!"

"I assumed they were imported," I say, pushing the bowl aside. I suppose I should find it frightening, how I care less and less about anything else, the nearer he is to me. But as I lean as far across the bartop as I can, I get close enough to catch a whiff of him, and I find I cannot care even about fear. Tonight, he smells like fresh lemon peel, mulled spices, and the air after rain.

As if I needed another reason to lose my mind. . .

"Nae. They're from our oon kitchen greenhouse, jus' heer."

He pushes a long fall of curls off my shoulder as he points in the direction of the kitchens.

"Oh?" I say, absently, "I've been in the greenhouse almost every day since I got here, and I haven't seen any strawberries. . ." I run my eyes over his lips, over his chin, my focus mainly on remembering how his stubble tastes, and how different it is from the flavour of his freshly shaven skin. . .

His hand curls around the back of my neck, thumb lightly brushing my jaw just below my ear.

"Thear's a special room i' the back quartar. Gets th'most sun."

"Oh. . ."

It's been over three days and I've missed him and he looks _delightful_ and smells _edible_ and dammit, I don't _need_ an excuse to kiss him, do I?

 _He_ certainly doesn't, and as he plays his mouth gently over mine, then nibbles on my lower lip, all I can think is that I'm so very, _very_ glad I chose not to use that thing Annie called 'lip stick'. Ours stick very well without it.

He pulls back long before I want him to, but then I remember we're almost in public. . .

"Tha' table ower thear is whear me an' the lads from the stables usually sit," he nods behind me at the nearest table one column over, "We'er normally joined by a few o' Marc's boys, an' some of the hands. Now an' then Marc oor Murtagh too." He smiles, almost shyly, "I havetae stay heer for about another half-hour, but ye'er welcome to sit wi' them, an I'll join ye jus' a'soon as the first rush for drinks is over."

I sigh, and scan the truly impressive number of bottles lining the shelves behind him, "Well, I suppose it would be best to finally get it over with - heaven knows I've left it late enough as it is." I sit back on my stool and grin, "But you promised me whisky, my lad, and I'm not going to budge from here until you pour me some."

"Aye," he turns to grab a bottle and a glass, "But. . . what are ye on about? Get what over?"

"Oh." I shrug, "The ritual duel."

"The. . . duel?" He hands me my drink, eyebrows raised.

"Mmm, nice," I swirl the whisky in my glass and take a sip, "Well, it's Scotland, so maybe it will be a ritual fistfight? I don't know yet, exactly."

He blinks, a dubious look on his face, and a question in his eyes he doesn't want to ask.

"Yes, yes, you know," I gesture with my glass, "It'll be all, 'I don't know you, you don't know me, let's beat each other up to establish dominance.' That sort of thing." I shrug, as if I engage in such encounters all the time, when it's really only now and then. "It usually only happens with groups of men. Groups of women make you prove yourself totally differently. . ."

"Agch," he growls, "Are ye sayin' they willnae respect ye?"

I put my whisky down, more than half incredulous, "Really? Come on Jamie! I'm a stranger, _and_ a Sassenach - in a place and time when that's not exactly a pretty word - not to mention a woman into the bargain? Of _course_ they won't respect me! Not initially, anyway. They're going to make me earn it - you _know_ they will!"

"But. . . ye'ev already _earnt_ it - ye'er a guest! Aye, _an'_ a woman! It must count for _somethin'_."

I smile at his instinctive chivalry, "But it doesn't, Jamie. And I'm hardly a guest when I'm on _this_ side of the High Table. To an ordinary resident here, at _best_ , I'm their boss's boss - an outlander hired over their heads, who has only been here two weeks, and has spent most of that time ignoring them. At worst. . . well. . . let's not go there, shall we? And now I'll be sat in the middle of _their_ special table, demanding to be instantly respected? There's isn't an ice cube's chance in hell they'll make it easy for me. And the fact that I'm a woman will just make everything _more_ awkward."

He sets his lips, grim and hard, "Eatin' in the kitchen doesnae mean ye were ignoring them."

"No, but it probably feels that way to a lot of them. They're family here - almost all of them. And as official Guest, I've only eaten with them once? How would _you_ feel about me, if you were them?"

"They dinnae even ken ye. . ."

I scoff a bit, "And that's supposed to stop them? If I was meeting each one of them individually - or even two or three at a time, like I did with Willie and Geordie - it would be different. But in a group? In public? It will probably fall short of hazing, but most likely _only_ just."

"But. . . they. . ." he sighs heavily, and pours himself a drink.

Inwardly, I shake my head. There's no way this man is the royally-cloistered, court-bred ingénu he's affecting at the moment. I wonder what the hell he's playing at. . .

"I'll be fair to them and say they've hardly been given the chance to know or respect me yet - most of them - but if they're anything like the majority of men I've worked with, as long as we're at this party, it'll take a bit of doing just to be accepted as an expert in my field - pun fully intended."

He exhales gustily, "I dinnae ken about any of this, Claire."

"Well, that's because you didn't need me to prove anything to you before you treated me like a Human being."

He stares, almost bewilderedly, "Because. . . ye _are_ a Human being. . ."

I bark a hard little laugh, "Oh no I'm not, Jamie! I'm a _woman_! Tits and everything! There's really only one thing I'm good for. . ."

He gapes at me, "Ye dinnae _really_ think that. . . ? That. . ."

I sigh deeply. " _Men_ , Jamie. They aren't all the same, but too often society thinks they are. And when in groups, too often they live up to what society expects - exactly that, and no more. Club mentality and mob mentality are far more closely related than most people ever realize, and if I want to end tonight with more friends than I started with, I have to do this."

I nod solemnly in the direction he indicated, "I'll have to sit at that table like I'm in the middle of a lion's den - eyes wide open, sword drawn, shield up. You _know_ it. And I know it."

He shakes his head.

And that's _quite_ enough of that, my lad. . .

I huff at him, "You may be young, and very sweet, but you'll never get me to believe you've been _that_ sheltered, James Fraser."

"Ifrinn!" he pounds the countertop, "It isnae _that_ , Claire!"

"Then what. . .?"

"It's too _true_ , alraight? Ye ken them too well, an' ye havenae even met most o' them yet." He kicks back his whisky and grimaces sharply. ''Ye'er _right_ , dammit."

I feel a painful flush cover my cheeks. I've misread him. He wasn't playing the ingénu - he was sincerely facing up to the fact that caring about me will mean _defending_ me sometimes, not just from Dougal, but from people he considers his friends.

It isn't the first time I've misread him, far from it, but it feels worse now. Perhaps because we're friends. Perhaps because we're a bit _more_ than friends. . .

I should know him better.

"I dinnae hate that ye'er right, Sassenach, but I do hate that ye'er right about _this_ ," he says, hastily, possibly himself misreading my blush as indignation. "An' ye were right in my workshop that day, too. It's two different ways of livin'. Two different lives, or more. One here, wi' me, and half a dozen over there, wi' everyone else. It will no' be easy tae blend any of them - for ye tae live one life here. I'm sorrae I ever doubted it. Doubted ye."

I didn't know he had, but it is immeasurably reassuring to know that I'm not the only one still feeling awkward in this new relationship of ours.

He holds out a hand, and I take it in both of mine.

"I'll go talk tae Mrs. Fitz. She'll find som'un else tae mind the bar, an' we'll go-"

I shake my head, "Actually, it's _ideal_ for me to go in alone, at least at first."

His his jaw drops a little, and his eyes go wide.

"They won't respect me until I've fought them, Jamie. Until _I_ have fought them. I, Claire Beauchamp. Not 'Jamie's Girl'."

"Ye. . . dinnae wantae be my girl?" His voice is a strange mixture of sadness and shocked curiosity.

I squeeze his hand, and he turns his wrist to lock fingers with me again.

"You know I _do_. Very much, Jamie. But I don't want to be _just_ that, and if you're there the whole time, that's all I'll be. Because you'll jump in to protect me every time someone shows their teeth - you know you will. And that would only derail the whole process. It'd be fine if I was anyone else - or trying to accomplish anything other than what I'm trying to do here. But by the end of the night, they have to be willing to _work with me_. It's a delicate balance, my lad, and a fine line to walk. I have to fight them, but without drawing blood."

Funny. I've never thought of these sorts of encounters in such precise terms before. On Skycity 15, they were just something I had to do sometimes. Annoying, usually. Unjust, always. But now, here, the concept itself seems so. . . formalized. As though my whole way of thinking about it has crystallized into something new.

It must be the surroundings, and the fact that underneath it all is a slow, creeping dread that I won't be able to avoid an encounter with Dougal tonight. Warrior Claire is wide awake, and something in me feels ancient, courtly and fierce.

My Central blood is up. Woe betide any man who underestimates me!

Jamie's jaw clenched when I said the word 'blood'.

I raise my chin, "You've just apologized for doubting me, Fraser. So you'd better not be doubting me now."

"Ye'er _sure_? Ye cannae _want_ tae do it alone?"

I pick up my glass and take a sip, enjoying the dark, energizing heat of the whisky, "Of course not. But, the term 'ritual duel' wasn't a mistake. I've done it all before. And yes, alone."

Though, for all that, I did usually have Frank along with me most of the times this sort of situation cropped up - at Sanitation Worker's Union meetings, or Farm Labourer's Council dinners, etc. And after several such experiences, we got so good at communicating what we needed from each other in specific circumstances, we could silently let each other know what was happening, even from across a crowded room. A glance, a gesture, a mouthed word, and we would come to each other's rescue. I sigh a bit. I wish Frank was here now. . .

But, he isn't, and there's no way I'm going to throw Jamie into the deep end, expecting that sort of connection or support from him, not now. Not yet. Not against his _friends_. Let me deal with the first few rounds of attacks, and let him join in after the worst of the fighting is over.

"Wi' rough, suspicious Scots, set in their ways?" he asks, mournfully, "As a Sassenach, which as ye well say isnae exactly a pretty thing tae be 'round heer? Ye've done _that_ afore? Alone?" His hand grips mine, hard.

My mouth twitches, remembering two weeks ago with the Rover. But that was an emergency, and this is a planned social event. Two _very_ different situations.

Then again, there _was_ that one time. . .

"No. I did it alone with Oxford professors." Gently, I separate our hands, "And if you think Scottish clansmen are a rough bunch, married to outdated traditions, and highly suspicious of outsiders, then you've never met a table full of senior Classics dons." I take a sip to hide my smirk, remembering one infamously cranky professor. . .

Jamie shudders a bit, "No. An' I dinnae care tae, thankee _verrah_ much!"

"But I have. And I won them all over, in the long run."

"Why, _a'coorse_ ye did, but. . ."

I sigh, sharply, "Look, how about this? If anyone gets handsy, you can swoop in, alright? I promise I won't be mad if you derail things while stopping someone from trying to cop a feel. Okay?"

He stares at me, either horrified or disgusted, or both, "They'd _bettar_ no'. . ." he trails off into a string of fierce curses I'm very glad I cannot translate.

"Well. . . I wouldn't entirely dismiss the possibility. . . but they probably won't." I run a fingertip along the rim of my glass, "If Angus and Rupert are any sort of gauge, it will all be just talk. Rough talk, but still. . ." I shrug, "I'm _good_ at keeping things verbal."

"Words," he says, softly, "That are quick and shallow? Like leaves fallen 'cross exposed roots, full meant, but wi' many purposes?"

"Yes." I purse my lips. "You'd be surprised what a weapon words like that can make. And what a shield they can be. What effective armour. Remember all those things I said to Dougal?"

He snorts, gently, "This is different. . ."

"Yes." I nod, "Yes, it is. Very different. But it's still within my skill set. Okay?"

He glowers at the countertop, "Noo. Nothin' aboot this is 'okay'."

"No, but the saying is 'Lord give me the strength to deal with what I cannot change', not 'Lord give me the strength to change the world'."

He looks up, his expression hard and closed off, "The direct quote is - 'God grant me the _serenity_ tae _accept_ the things I cannae change', mo ghràidh."

Yes. And grant me the courage to change the things I can. . .

"Oh, picky picky," I say lightly, trying to tease that stony look off his face. It takes a minute, but eventually his eyes soften, and he gives me a pale smile.

I finish my whisky, and hand him the glass.

"Can I give ye one word of advice?" he asks, carefully.

"Please do. I need all the help I can get."

"Dinnae underestimate them, Sassenach. In either direction. Ye'er right, they arenae goin' tae make it easy on ye, but. . . they _might_ surprise ye, all the same." He rinses my glass and sets it upside down on a nearby unfolded towel, "After all, we live and learn when it comes to our fellow men, do we no'?"

"Yes. And I hope they do."

At that moment, seemingly dozens of doors open, both on this level, and above us on the balcony. Crowds of excitedly chattering people begin to fill the Great Hall.

"Well, my lad. . ." I smile, half-heartedly. For all that I've just convinced him to let me do this, and no matter how much I know I need to, I still would rather not. Or, more truthfully - I wish I didn't _have to_. "That's my cue."

I slide off the barstool, and am just about to make my way to the line forming next to the buffet tables, when I remember something important. I turn back to him.

"Oh, Jamie? Could you do me a favour?"

He smiles thinly at me, half indulgent, half worried, "Anything, Sassenach."

"Just for tonight. . . don't call me that?" My hands knot into fists, hoping desperately he will understand. . .

His expression darkens, but he nods, firmly, "Aye."

I nod back, wordlessly thanking him, and turn away.

The line going past the buffet tables is moving slowly, but steadily. I take a plate and utensils from a table filled with them, and watch to see what the people around me are doing. I know what a buffet is, but I've never seen one so varied or immense - I'm a bit overwhelmed. At the start are salads. These do not seem very popular, but I take a portion of one that appears to be made with raisins and grated carrots. On the next table is a huge pile of steaming hot baked potatoes, split open, but still wrapped in long twists of foil. Next to them are twelve large bowls filled with a variety of toppings. This table is much more popular. These must be the 'loaded potatoes' Jamie mentioned - and the term makes complete sense now. I take one, and fill it with butter, grated cheese, minced onion, and what I am almost certain are chopped pieces of bacon.

The next three tables are extremely popular. Two of them are filled with round baking trays with disks of flattened bread on them, covered with sauces and chopped meat and vegetables - all embedded in what looks like melted cheese. Each has been divided into wedges - one wedge apparently being a portion. The third table is covered in oddly shaped cardboard boxes, with the logo of one of the local caf's I've heard Willie mention printed on the top. These boxes also contain round, flat bread, with cheese and toppings, cut into wedges.

I listen carefully to what people are saying around me, and conclude that this is pizza. It smells appetizing enough to me, and so I take two portions of one that came from the caf. The ingredients and a title are printed on the cardboard box. Apparently this kind of pizza is called 'deluxe vegetable', and it is covered in sliced courgette, heirloom tomato, red bell pepper, mushrooms, red onions, pickled artichoke hearts, broccoli florets, garlic, spinach, four kinds of cheese, a cream sauce . . . and olives.

'Deluxe' indeed. Olives are extinct. . .

And even excluding that, I've never seen so many non-hybridized specialty vegetables crowded onto one piece of bread in all my life.

I feel like that is enough for now - my plate is full, and if this is like the buffets my mother used to throw on special occasions, then I can come back for more later, if I wish. I walk deliberately past a half dozen more tables filled with things I don't try to see, but as I walk by the last one, I recognize the of smell Mrs. Fitz's famous lamb stew. Beyond that, there are the tables full of drinks. I take a glass from a tray still nearly entirely full - plain water, but with a generous serving of ice, and a lemon slice stuck on the rim.

Olives. Meat. Water. Ice. Lemons.

There is no end to the luxuries available here. It is very odd to be the only one in the room who fully appreciates that.

When I make it back to the rear of the room, the bar is swamped with people ordering drinks, and so far there is no one sitting at Jamie's regular table.

Well. Here goes. . .

I slide to the middle of the bench facing the stage, and calmly await my fate.

I'm halfway though a piece of the vegetable pizza, and very much enjoying it, when a plate containing a huge stack of breaded wedges is slapped down on the place next to me, and a familiar voice says,

"If I said ye had a beautiful body, would ye hold it against me?"

Rupert sits down on the bench, heavily.

Another, similar plate thuds down on the table to my other side. The deep-fried batter looks disturbingly like skin, but coloured an unnatural brown, too flat and eerily hairless, like an eggshell. And on such inorganic shapes like the irregular wedges, it looks offensively creepy.

"What. . . _is_ that?" I recoil from both their plates.

Angus sits down, more delicately than Rupert did, but with a wide, triumphant smirk on his face. "Och, sae ye'll eat haggis wi' nae questions asked, but look warily at a piece o' crunch pizza?" He takes a huge bite, and mumbles around it, "Tha's goo tae ken." A few crumbs spray out of his mouth in my direction.

I make a disgusted noise, and shake my head. "Ew. Chew your food Angus."

I've seen these two most days this week. More often then not, whenever I get back from lunch, they'll be in the lab break room, lounging about with old magazines, or fooling with their info-screens. I can't decide if they're still surveilling me or not. Their actions suggest not - I could be doing almost literally anything in the lab, for all the notice they take. We've barely exchanged more than ten words total this week, I'd say. But then, why do they always appear? They didn't show up at the lab today, and they weren't on the list of people Jamie mentioned that regularly sit at this table, so I didn't expect them here right now. An oversight. . .

Rupert swallows noisily, "Ye didnae anser my question, Sassenach. . ." he says, in a flat sing-song, batting his eyes and giving me a mocking smile.

I snort. I really _was_ hoping for better than a preschool level game of naughty rounders tonight. . . so far, neither of them is surprising me at all, and they _are_ wasting my time. . .

"Thank you, for boldly engaging in the lowest and most unimaginative form of flirting, Rupert. I don't even rate a 'What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?', huh? Typical."

Angus chuckles, but Rupert tries again.

"Wha' s'matter, Sassenach?" he leers, "Annoyed?"

"No," I scoop up a bit of my loaded potato, "Bored."

Though, I will admit, as I chew contemplatively, if I had better company, I think this might be my new favourite way to have potatoes. . .

"So. . . ye'er sayin' I. . . _bore_ ye?" says Rupert, in between gnawing on his slice of deep-fried pizza.

Nope. My favourite way to have potatoes is still vodka.

And the Ruperts of the world are the main reason why. . .

Inwardly, I sigh. Fine. Down-and-dirty rounders it is, then.

"No, I'm saying you're boring. What, is of no consequence to me at all."

Angus laughs loudly, and claps me on the shoulder, almost making me stab myself with my fork.

My 'Hey, watch it!' is lost behind Angus's overloud, "'What', no' 'Who'! Aye, she kens ye, Rupe!"

"As long as it's Biblically, I dinnae mind, Sassenach," says Rupert, winking lewdly, but elbowing me in the ribs surprisingly gently.

Huh. _That's_ interesting. Perhaps I've made more progress with Rupert than I think I have, and this is actually the best place for the evening to have started.

Let's test that theory out, then. . .

I sigh, over-theatrically, "If you _must_ be lame, Rupert, could you at least _try_ to be interesting?"

"Ye mean, 'If ye'er goin' tae suck, at least suck _hard_ '?" he says, significantly, grinning at Angus over my shoulder.

Well. That's promising. I'm not certain of Angus yet, but Rupert is, somehow, in a backhanded way, _on my side_.

They have managed to surprise me after all. I never expected to be gifted allies like this, perilous allies though they may be.

"Exactly," I nod, "And if anyone knows anything about sucking hard, it's you, Rupert."

Whatever his response would have been to that, it's cut off, as suddenly, Angus leaps to his feet. A small crowd of men are approaching our table, and clearly Angus intends to do the honours. . .

Yes. Angus is on my side too.

For whatever strange reasons of his own, and on his own terms, but still. . .

He gestures at each man as they approach and sit down, "Gilbert Mackenzie, Leonard Mackenzie, Tory MacTavish, Gerald Campbell-"

He isn't halfway through before I'm extremely thankful I have an almost freakish memory for names and faces. . .

"-Arnold Fitzgibbons, Harold Mackenzie, Alain Mackenzie, Edan Campbell, and Peter Harris." He gestures at me, "May I present Mrs. Claire Beauchamp, our new Farm Manager." Angus sits down, grinning, clearly quite pleased with himself.

I nod, and let my sweeping glance take in the entire table.

"Gentlemen," I say, formally.

Then, I turn my attention back to my supper, wondering how long it will take befor-

"Och, I was wondering _hoor_ ye were," says Harold.

Ah. Not long at all.

"Nae Har," says Gerald, "Shee's nae hoor - her hands are tae small, look-"

I hold back a sigh. The opening move of this type of duel is always the same.

I'm very glad Jamie isn't here right now. Even my calm, self-possessed Frank once punched a man who was 'flirting' with me like this - I can't imagine what two-plus meters of emotional, bull-headed Scot would do.

Or rather, I can. And it isn't pretty.

And then, _my_ most effective opening move has always been passive aggression. I'm surprised how glad I am that Jamie doesn't have to see _me_ in this situation, either. . .

This is down-and-dirty rounders, and _nothing_ about it is pretty.

The ugly, suggestive comments have their full momentum now, but I notice that Angus and Rupert, though they are laughing as much as any of them, haven't volunteered any remarks of their own. Tory hasn't either. Alain and Arnold have, but only half-heartedly.

I make a mental note of that, but outwardly all I do is thoroughly ignore every comment directed at me for at least five minutes. By that time, a great deal of the initial nastiness has burned itself out, most of them learning that I cannot be stung into a reaction by mere lewd commentary. And sitting here, behind the twin shields of Angus and Rupert, there was almost no attempt to shift into lewd physicality either.

Thank you, my strange, _strange_ guard squad. I appreciate it.

"Well," I say into the awkward, slightly helpless lull that usually follows the opening word-dump, "Now you've taken the low road, and you're all in Scotland before me. Congratulations."

I take a sip of water, and wait to see what the reaction to that will be.

I've seen groups turn on me completely at this point.

Ideally, they'll either change the subject, or ignore me entirely.

"Did ye bring a bottle, Gil?" says Peter.

"Aye. Two." He takes two bottles of whisky out from the bag beside him, and slides them to the center of the table, "Wha' did th'rest of ye bring?"

Change the subject, ignore me entirely, or both.

I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. This type of duel is always the most dangerous during the opening volleys. Now, I can breathe a bit before deliberately re-engaging. This time on _my_ terms.

It is only a few seconds before a half dozen more whisky bottles have joined Gil's two at the center of the table. Tory goes over to the bar, and brings back an entire tray of empty glasses. Edan picks up the bottle Leonard contributed, and sneers at the label.

"The bloody shite did'ye bring _Irish_ whiskey fer, Leo? _Taenight_? Of all nights?"

Leo shrugs, nonplussed, "Aye. Wha's wrong wi' it, then?"

"Ye bring flavourless crap like that tae the table an' ye'er askin' wha's _wrong_ wi' it?" He pushes the bottle away from him in disgust.

Ah, good. An ideal opening for me.

I snort.

"Och, aye? Wha'sae funny, Sassenach?" says Edan, rounding on me, liked I hoped he would.

"Oh, nothing," I gesture casually, "It's just that. . . well, if you _must_ drink crap, wouldn't flavourless be the way to go? I mean, the alternative is. . . flavour _ful_. . ."

Most everyone at the table halts for a second. Then, Leo chuckles, and a great deal of the underlying tension relaxes into a much more open feeling.

Not friendly antagonism, not yet. But perhaps cheerful antagonism.

We all manage to focus on our supper for about ten uninterrupted minutes.

I'm just trying to figure out what is in the cream dressing on the carrot salad, never having tasted anything like it before, when a loud disagreement breaks out around the table - Gil, Peter and Edan arguing that we ought to drink the best whiskys first, and Leo, Gerald and Alain arguing that we ought to start with the lesser ones, and get them out of the way.

I do nothing to conceal my outright laughter at such a dispute.

"Ahgch!" grunts Gerald, "Ye'ev made th'Sassenach laugh at us, Gil!" He turns to me, "Sae what's yer opinion, then? Where would ye start wi' this lot?" He gestures at the bottles, his facial expression saying he expects my opinion to be the worst of its kind.

I just smile. "Oh, start with the good stuff, by all means," I take up the bottle nearest me, twist off the cap and give it a sniff, "That way if you pass out later on, you'll only forget the cheap whisky."

"Ha! I like this one!" Gil elbows Angus hard, "I'll play ye for her!"

"You'll do no such thing!" I say, grabbing a glass from the tray and pouring myself a dram, "You'll play _me_ for me. And I give you fair warning now - I cheat."

Angus grunts, pushing an empty glass towards me, "Aye, that she does, shamelessly and constantly."

I put my nose in the air, "And also _better_ than everyone else, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it, baby." I pour Angus a portion from the bottle I've opened.

"Heh. I'd let ye smoke _mah_ pipe any day, lassie," says Gil, smirking.

I take a sip, draw my sword, and wade into battle.

" _Oh_ , my wee lad, I'd burn it right off. . ."

"An' what if I was inta that?"

I shrug, "I wouldn't be surprised. Most men need a good castration before they're tolerable anyway."

"Ooophf! Cheetin' indeed!" he clutches his shirt around the left side of his chest, "Ye doo fight hard an' dirty!"

"Pff!" I scoff, "What do you want me to say? I like to win. Get over it."

"Och, I want tae be _over_ it, all right. . ."

"Uh-huh. And do you _really_ think _you_ could _ever_ make me win?"

Gil opens his mouth to reply, then registers a double take. Angus splutters into his drink.

Leo shakes his head, "Tha' wasnae castration, lassie, tha' was _execution_."

"So what? He has another head. What's the problem?"

Half the table blinks, and chuckles uncomfortably.

"I _towld_ ye!" Angus says, laughing freely, "Shameless!"

I snort a laugh, "No, that's what's called _followthrough_. And it's a talent most men need to learn, let me tell you."

Gerald grunts, "Whoe'er gave ye such an opinion o' men, lassie?"

So, we're all at 'lassie', are we? That's progress, at least.

"Why, no one! I'm perfectly capable of forming my own opinions." I finish the dram I poured for myself, and with a gesture ask Rupert for a refill from the bottle he just opened.

"Aye, an' we all ken ye'ev been 'formin' an opinion' of oor wee Jamie, heven't ye?" he says, mischievously.

Perilous allies, my bodyguards. But it's alright, I'm prepared for that one.

"Well, rumour _also_ has it that I'm a lioness, _and_ a Dryad, and that you, Rupert, are a rose. I have no doubt Geillis Duncan has put it about that I've been seen in the same general vicinity as the tallest and most red-headed of Castle Leoch's resident MacTavishes, if _that's_ what you mean."

"An' eef ye have," says Tory, "It's nae wonder th'rest of us mere mortals pale in comparison. There's few can match our wee Jamie." He grins at me, "I'm gay, ye ken."

I grin back. "My condolences."

I hope my smile covers my start. In my time, the word 'gay' is a horrible slur. But Tory says it so casually, it's clear it is no such thing here. I wonder what the word means in 2078. I doubt it's anywhere near the same thing as what it means in 2279. . .

"Thankee," he chuckles, then pours a round for himself, Arnold, and Harold, "Life wi' this lot _is_ a constant trial by fire."

"Really? I'd have thought it'd be more a comedy of errors. . ."

He laughs as he shrugs, "Aye, t'is tha' too, more often than no'."

I look up from our table and scan the room for a minute. I need some mental space. The rapid-fire nature of this sort of encounter is not good for my brain. . .

For a few seconds, the room slows, the murmur of conversation becoming the long, sub-bass groan of a Skycity changing course. . .

Keep it together Beauchamp! Now is not the time for a dissociative episode!

A familiar face some meters away snaps me back to reality.

"Willie!" I call, waving, "Come sit with us!"

There is some scattered snickering around the table.

"Ye said Willie," says Arnold.

I blink. Yes, I did. There must be something about the name, but I have no idea what.

"Astute observation," I say, blandly.

Harold chuckles, "An' now ye said 'ass-toot'."

"Almost revolutionary, isn't it?"

He sneers at me, but then his attention is distracted as Willie himself sits down between Alain and Gerald.

Almost at once, I discover what the name "Willie" is a euphemism for. I sit silently for a few minutes, listening to the lot of them harshly tease the poor lad, getting angrier and angrier the more they jibe him.

It isn't that they're being ugly to one of their own - I rather assumed they would be. It is that, in this time period, _what_ sort of parent would give their child a nickname like that? It's unfathomable to me.

"Agch! Jus' ask the Sassenach, laddie!" says Gil, laughing at Willie, but gesturing at me, " _She_ c'n tell ye a dirk is'no a claymoor!"

The entire table turns to me, as does Willie himself. He's not particularly upset, but there is a stung look in his eyes that I despise these men for putting there.

I'll be damned if I add to it. . .

I grab two of the bottles of whisky, and balance my palms on top of their cork and cap, hands flat, showing the almost ten centimeter difference in the height of the bottles.

"Height. . ." I say, very seriously, ". . . is almost completely irrelevant."

Everyone at the table gasps, and Willie's jaw drops.

I shift my hands, deliberately grasping each bottle around the middle.

"Circumference, now. . . that's _much_ more relevant."

I pick up the shorter, wider bottle, yank the cork out with my teeth, take a long swig directly from the bottleneck, and slap it back on the table.

"Get the picture?"

After a blink and a heartbeat, the table erupts in the friendliest laughter I've heard from them yet tonight.

"Fer that, Sassenach," says Gil, hooting magnanimously, "Ye deserve a shot o' th'best." He takes up a bottle no one has opened yet, and pours me a generous dram.

Everyone raises their glasses, and Gil says, "To all cheetin' lasses, who fight hard an' dirty. Slàinte mhath!"

"Shlan gevah!" I respond along with everyone else, and take a sip of the new whisky. This one is much more heavily smoky, spicy and overpowering. I only take a small sip.

There are a few mocking snorts at my mangled salute, and Angus kicks back his drink with a grimace, then hisses at me, "Tha' was _terrible_ , lassie."

I harrumph, and deliberately deepen my Central accent, "Shows wot _you_ know! I have it on _very_ good authority that my Gaelic accent is _hilarious_."

I carefully watch the faces around me as I say this, and can read pretty much exactly the thought process they all go though - What? The Sassenach is going to brag about _this_? Oh, 'good authority', eh? Well, we all know who told her _that_. Poor wee Jamie. . . oh! Oh, _hilarious_ is it? Well, we can all get behind that! Maybe Jamie isn't so poor after all, lucky bastard. . .

The laugh that follows is entirely genuine, not mocking at all.

Finally, we're all on the same level. Time to reinforce that. C'mon Rupert, don't fail me now. . .

"I mean, if you're going to suck. . ." I prompt.

Rupert raises his glass again, and crashes it into Leo's, yelling, "AT LEAST SUCK _HARD_!"

Everyone guffaws, and takes up the salute, as if each one of them had thought of it themselves.

I smile, almost fondly.

There we go. Thanks Rupert. . .

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jamie leave the bar enclosure, carrying a tray of full glasses over his shoulder.

I only catch glimpses of him as he walks down the line of buffet tables, his lower half periodically obscured by the expanse of people and tables between us. But he's _definitely_ wearing a kilt.

I am completely unprepared for the effect this has on me. My stomach swoops, fluttering, my heart speeds up, and my cheeks warm in a way that has _nothing_ to do with whisky.

All the time I was talking to him at the bar, he was hiding _that_ behind it?

The man can do absurdly alluring things with just a pair of jeans and flannel shirt.

He's astonishingly beautiful in a dress shirt and tie.

He could take over the _world_ in a kilt.

As he reaches the drinks tables, I notice it's not an ordinary kilt either. It's also got this hip-cape thing going on that is doing _more_ unfair things to my insides.

If I thought he was stunning in a formal shirt and jacket, adding this just puts him right over the top. I can't take my eyes off him, from his fiery-red hair, to his deep, broad chest, to his slinky, tartan-framed hips, to his sexy knees - how can _anyone_ have sexy knees, isn't that a contradiction in terms? - to his rugged, high-top boots.

He's almost back to the bar when my brain catches up with me.

Stop staring, Beauchamp! The man may be your boyfriend. . . and _insanely_ pretty. . . but that's no excuse to be rude!

"Hmm." I swirl the whisky in my glass, mind racing almost as fast as my heart, "This one needs some soda water, I'll be right back."

"Aye, shee jus' got a wee keek at Jamie in 'is plaid, an' has tae goo settle 'er stummik!" roars Rupert.

I roll my eyes, "You're not _wrong_ , Rupe - you're just an _asshole_."

"The Dude Abides!" he raises his glass to me, grinning.

I barely hear him.

I spend the entirety of the few meters back to the bar trying to calm my breathing. . .

Jamie comes right over to me as soon as I sit down.

"Can I help ye, Mrs. Beauchamp?" he asks, smirking.

"I don't know, Jamie, but I do know you can help this poor fellow. . ." I hold up my glass.

He takes it, sniffs, and rears back in surprise, "Wha' doo they have ye drinkin' ower there? Tha's no' sippin' whisky."

"I don't mind it, it just needs some water. And I wouldn't exactly say they're 'sipping' it, either. But. . . I, uhm. . ." I lean forward and whisper, "I thought you didn't wear your kilt. . . in public?" I squeak a little bit on the last word. It sounds as though I'm implying he only wears it in private. . .

Stop it Beauchamp! You aren't in any shape to be going there right now!

His smirk broadens to a grin as he sidles up to me, "Weel, it's the MacKenzie tartan, soo, it's no' exactly _mine_ \- it's a belted-plaid, so it's no' _exactly_ a modern kilt - an' this is a private concert, so. . . it's no' exactly public." After a glance behind me to make certain no one is watching, he leans down close, and whispers into my ear, "An' I didnae think ye'ed object."

"Oh, I'm not. . . not that, no. . . no, not objecting. . ."

No, I'm shamelessly _babbling_.

The things this man can do to me, without even trying. I'd be embarrassed, but it feels far too good to be ashamed of it.

"Sae how'er things goin'?" he asks, adding water in tiny spoonfuls, swirling and sniffing after each addition.

"We're at the most delicate stage right now. They've accepted that I'm their equal - most of them have, anyway. But they still don't like me much. We aren't on the same side yet. . ."

I quickly run through most of what has been said.

"Ye'er only encouragin' them, wi' comments like that. . ." he snorts, handing me the glass to taste.

"Well, good. My goal isn't to shut them down - it's to open them up."

I sip, shake my head, and hold it out for some more water.

He adds just a few drops this time, and motions for me to taste it again.

"I have to engage with them on their level, but on my own terms. A fight, Jamie, but with no blood. You see?"

I swirl it around, and take a sip, and this time it's perfect. All the notes softened and refined, with the rich spiciness easing itself into the heady scent of smoke, neither one overpowering the other.

"I see that my half hour is up. I'm goin' tae join ye." He whips off his apron, and goes to wash his hands.

"Is that. . . wise?"

He shrugs, "Dinnae ken. But I'll go crazy if I stand heer any longer, doin' nothin' while ye'er ower thear going though this alone. Besides, I'm starvin'."

"You. . . you won't. . . I mean. . ."

I can't have him derail things now, it would waste all of tonight's efforts.

"Trust me, Claire. Please?" He looks at me imploringly, eyes wide and clear, expression soft and pleading. . .

Dammit, I can't resist him.

"Alright."

He grins, and turns to take a bottle off the highest shelf behind him. I catch a glimpse of the label - Lallybroch 14 Year. He proudly escorts me back to the table, nudging Angus to move over, and briefly sits down next to me.

"Mrs. Beauchamp here says ye'er drinkin' nowt but shite, sae I brawt ye sumthin' bettar," he says, putting the bottle down as he slowly stands up, "Bu' thear had bettar be moor than a nip left when I gi' back, sae help me, oor I'll skelp th'lot of ye. . ."

There is a good bit of chuckling as he goes over to the buffet, but no one makes a motion towards the bottle when he's gone.

A mischievous notion sprouts in my brain, and I act on it at once.

Miming to everyone who notices to be quiet, I take the bottle, and place it carefully on the floor, holding it steady between my shoes. There are many conspiratorial smiles exchanged between me and most of the rest of the table, which is what I hoped for.

It's too much to hope that after tonight they'll think of me as one of them. But maybe, just maybe, we'll reach non-aggression. A bright, secretive glance between me and Gil confirms that this was absolutely the right move to make.

Suddenly, it dawns on me why.

They all respect Jamie. And more than that - they love him. Chances to tease him like this, without fear of any repercussions, must come along terribly rarely. They have to _trust_ me with this, and so far, they all are.

After tonight, I think, I'll have no objections whatever to being 'Jamie's Girl'.

He comes back a minute later, plate heaped with pizza, potatoes, meat, and several things I don't recognize. He sits, and begins to eat with such boyish gusto, it takes him almost a minute to realize his bottle is gone.

He rounds on Angus, "Alrigh', what hev ye dun wi' it, ya wee gomeral?"

"I?" says Angus, all too clearly trying not to laugh, "I didnae. . ."

"Dinnae lie tae me, ye ken I c'n allus tell. . ."

Valiantly holding back laughter, I bring the bottle up, twist off the cap, and pour Rupert a drink.

Jamie turns at the sound, and all the righteous indignation he was directing at Angus now re-focuses on me.

"Ahgch! I might'a knoon!" he grabs the bottle from my hand, "Treachery, thy name is-"

"And, is there more then a nip left?" I interrupt, saucily.

"Aye," he eyes me darkly, but with a glimmer that lets me know he's teasing.

I wave him off, "Then you're welcome."

Finally, the table relaxes into warm, wonderful laughter.

After a moment, Jamie gives me a smirk, and a long look, and then goes back to his meal.

There is a few minutes pause. I finish my supper and sit back, stomach content. Then, as Harold reaches for a bottle, he half-smiles at me, "Sae I herd ye'er a farmar, Mrs. Beauchamp. Is tha' soo?"

Huh. It is actually quite surprising how little I've been asked to talk shop about being Farm Manager. Perhaps because this is a party, and they just want to forget work?

I shrug mentally. Deal with the question, Beauchamp, and don't quibble!

"Botanist, actually."

"Mm. I suppose tha' means ye like appels?"

Shit.

I've heard this one before - many, many times - but usually near the beginning, when I can just deflect it. At this stage of things, doing that would be less than useless. I have to engage with comments now. But, playing this particular comment out means I need a middleman, someone to set up my response. . .

I wait what is probably a heartbeat too long, giving Rupert or Angus every chance, praying that they'll give me what I need. . .

"Did ye ken that the word 'apple' use'tae mean _any_ kinda fruit?" says Jamie.

"Oh really?" I say, trying desperately not to let my relief show.

"Aye. From almonds tae oranges, 'tis appels all th'way doon. Makes translatin' some o' the really ancient stories a right fruit salad."

"Oh." I look Harold directly in the face, "Well. How do you like _them_ apples?"

I see a bit of conflict in Harold's eyes for a minute, but then he smiles, raises his glass to me, and nods.

It's either a concession or a truce, but I'll take either one. I raise my glass to him, and return his smile.

Jamie looks up from his plate for a second, giving me a sidelong glance, and a tiny smirk.

I close my eyes for a moment, and let the noise of the room wash over me.

Even Frank and I needed practice to become as good of a team as we were. What Jamie just did. . . I never knew it was possible. It wasn't just support, it was instinctive support. From a man. Against his friends. After having known me less than a fortnight, and this being the first time we've faced this sort of situation together.

He didn't read my mind, but, he may as well have. And here I originally thought he was neither wily nor subtle! We do indeed live and learn when it comes to our fellow men!

I've liked Jamie from the start. I've been _attracted_ to him from the start. I've grown to respect and care for him. But this is the first time he has thoroughly impressed me. For the first time, I'm proud of him. Not because he helped me, but because he has now made it clear he knows how to walk the knife-edge between two sheer cliffs, with a toss of the head and an airy smile, as though it isn't an ordeal or a struggle. He knows how to deduce, infer, take chances, jump at opportunities, and how and when to throw a spanner in the works.

He knows how to play this game that is no game.

Agonizingly slowly, I am realizing that Colum and Dougal _aren't_ my only options when it comes to formidable allies in this world.

If only Jamie was a Laird, and wasn't on the run. . .

"Soo," he asks the table, "Have ye finished choosin' teams fer the shinty match taemorrow yet?"

Leonard and Alain lean forward and start telling him all manner of things about a sporting event they apparently have planned.

Oh, this is too perfect. My best finishing move, and Jamie just set me up for it. There's no way he knew - but the coincidence is extremely welcome.

"Shinty?" I say, wonderingly, "I've never heard of that sport. Would you explain it to me?"

In my experience, there is nothing more endearing to a man than a woman being truly curious about a pastime he loves. I don't have to fake being interested, either - I really do want to know what this shinty thing is.

I smile as the entire table enthusiastically throws itself into ensuring that I know every last detail about the game before the night is over.

From chess, to skysurfing, to paintball, this move works every time. . .

Somewhere in the middle of a very loud discussion of the origin and proper use of the caman - which is a stick, I think - I lean over and murmur, so only Jamie can hear.

"Game, set, and match, my lad."

He meets my eyes, and smiles knowingly.

The electric candles above us suddenly dim, a spotlight shines on the dais, and a man leaps up from the crowd, speaking into a palm-mic -

"Ladies an' gentlemen, if ye would all put yer hands together, for The Cuckoos In The Grove!"

If Jamie says anything in reply to me, it's lost in the applause.


	32. Sing Me A Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwyllyn's harp guitar is a real instrument, check it out - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vlzk9989dzg

There is quite a stir in the Great Hall, even after the applause dies down. The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversations continue, though both are more subdued. Half the audience must turn around if they want to sit comfortably while watching the stage, and the rustle and shuffle of clothes and shoes sound almost loud now that people are only speaking in whispers.

Slowly, three men climb the shallow steps, and enter the spotlight.

The one in front is a tall, handsome man with long brown hair and a kindly expression. He's dressed in a flowing tunic of raw linen, unlaced halfway down his chest, and tucked into his matte black leather trousers. He holds an instrument the like of which I've never seen before - a stringed, hollow thing, made of pale gold wood, with two mismatched necks. It looks almost as if a guitar and a harp were somehow merged.

The two men behind him are in full Highland regalia - kilts, boots and caps all showing a maroon and gold tartan, elegant and striking. One of them holds a gleaming violin, and the other a small silver flute.

The whispering intensifies as the lead man - who I assume is Gwyllyn Pritchard - silently looks out and around. His gaze touches all of us, somehow bringing every person in the room under his personal care and protection. Suddenly, I remember something I've wondered about for days. I lean over and whisper to Jamie,

"I keep forgetting to ask - why are they called The Cuckoos In The Grove?"

"Because tha's the name of the first Scottish folk song Gwyllyn learned tae play," he murmurs back, "Now he always opens his first set with a version of the Sk-"

_"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone. . ."_

Gwyllyn's deep, rich voice vibrates in a cappella perfection, bringing all the whispers in the room to an abrupt halt.

_"Say, could that lad, be I? . . ."_

As the notes swing into the lower registers, my breath catches in my throat.

_"Merry of soul, he sailed on a day. . ."_

There is something about this music. . . something familiar. . .

_"Over the sea. . ._   
_To Skye. . ."_

My jaw drops. What on _earth_?

_"Mull was astern. . ."_

The violinist begins to play, dipping into the melody with one full, piercing note. . .

_"Rùm on the port. . ."_

It cuts across Gwyllyn's exquisite vibrato, and draws out my soul. . .

_"Eigg on the starboard bow. . ."_

The rest of the room falls away, and I dive into the music, body, blood, and spirit.

_"Glory of youth, glowed in his soul,_   
_Where is that glory now?"_

I close my eyes, entranced, mystified, and completely, utterly lost. . .

_"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,_   
_Say, could that lad, be I?_   
_Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,_   
_Over the sea, to Skye."_

The flute pipes up behind both words and violin, a thin, sweet thread of silver that sparkles as it twists and weaves through the music, binding it, making it whole. . .

_"Give me again all that was there,_   
_Give me the sun that shone!_   
_Give me the eyes, give me the soul,_   
_Give me the lad that's gone!"_

Tears start up in my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to will them away.

It's me.

It's my story.

Somehow, _somehow_ , Gwyllyn has learned my story, and has turned it into a thing of enchanting, glorious magic. . .

_"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,_   
_Say, could that lad, be I?"_

I've never felt such power in music. . . except for that fateful dawn on Craigh na Dun a fortnight ago. My hands curl into fists, and my feet twitch. I want to bolt, to hide. To run. . .

But then the drums begin.

_"Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,_   
_Over the sea, to Skye."_

Two spotlights illuminate two new members of the band, one on either side of the room, marching as they drum, moving towards the dais. . .

_"Billow and breeze, islands and seas,_   
_Mountains of rain and sun,_   
_All that was good, all that was fair,_   
_All that was me is gone."_

I can hardly breathe. . .

How?

_How?_

And then the bagpipes begin.

Two more spotlighted band members are now marching down the corner staircases that lead down from the balcony, their measured steps directed towards the stage, but they are mere colourful blurs to me, my eyes are so clouded with tears.

How does he know?

 _Can_ he know?

Does it matter if he can or not?

At last, his fingers strike the strings of his harp, and rolling, sweet music, impossibly clear, calls forth all the power of earth and sun and stone. . .

If Fate has a sound, it is this.

_"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,_   
_Say, could that lad, be I?_   
_Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,_   
_Over the sea. . . to Skye!"_

The last word crashes like a cannon firing, and the drums and pipes rise to fill the void left behind, the violin and flute keening behind them, the harp lending them power, as though the five instruments together might rend a gap in the very cloth of the universe.

Or like they already have. . .

My heart is beating so fast, I fear it may burst from my body.

All seven members of the band are now standing side by side on the stage, playing the last triumphant notes, utterly unaware of the lone time traveler in their midst, who is currently trying rather desperately to compose herself. . .

There's no way he _knows_. . .

It's just a song.

Just music.

Right?

While everyone else applauds, I take up my napkin, and dab at my eyes, hoping the low light will conceal any traces of my indiscretion. I take a long sip of whisky, trying to steady myself.

"Ye all right, Claire?" says Jamie, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder, "Ye'ev gone pale. Ye havenae seen a ghost?"

I force a smile, and murmur, "No. But. . . I think, there for a minute. . . I. . . " I swallow, ". . . I might have become one." I turn, and meet his concerned eyes that are now also slightly confused.

Angus leans over Jamie's shoulder and gives me a dubious look, "Ach, ye'er a strange one, Sassenach."

Oh, Angus. Thank you. Mystical, magical feelings haven't the slightest chance with you around. . .

I roll my eyes, " _Yes_ , Angus, I'm strange. That's why you love me."

He purses his lips for a moment, then nods, "Aye. 'Tis true."

I meet Jamie's eyes again, briefly, and we both laugh a little.

"'N thank yoo all far the very warm welcome back!" says Gwyllyn, smiling into the tiny microphone that somehow appeared in front of him at some point, "We alwhys feel at home heer at Leoch." He and the rest of the band bow, formally, to someone off to their left.

It is then that I notice Colum and Letitia, and the rest of their close household, sitting in a little group of the more comfortable chairs of the under-balcony. It's the first time I've been in the same room with Colum when his entrance wasn't announced. I didn't even notice when they arrived. Given all I've been dealing with tonight, I'd nearly forgotten _he_ would be here.

And by 'he', I do _not_ mean Colum. . .

"Thess _uz_ home far so many of yoo heer tanight," continues Gwyllyn, re-focusing on the main audience of us, "Soo I'd like ta throw open the dance flor - " There is a good deal of groaning at this, "Ah, yes, I knoo a lot of yoo're still eating, but I encorage at least some of yoo ta bee up heer far thess next song. . ." He smiles, and leans in close to his mic, "'Scotland The Brave'."

There are cheers, and a great deal of scattered applause as a goodly number of couples rise to go over to the dance floor.

The only pair I notice particularly are Dougal, who bows extremely formally, and offers his hand to Letitia. She prims up her mouth, and looks demurely downward as she takes his hand, but she also blushes, as delicately and as beautifully as a schoolgirl.

I hold back a snort. I had been very careful how I responded when Dougal told me that, despite everything, the relationship between him and his brother's wife was a strictly honourable one. It looks as if I was right to be skeptical.

'Only trying to give Colum a child' my pale, Skycity-born _arse_!

 _Perhaps_ that's where it started, but there is a great deal more than that going on now.

I sigh a bit. Sometimes I wish I couldn't read people so well.

They take their places in the middle of the dance floor, all the other couples ranging themselves around them.

I shake my head, trying to clear it, and that is when I notice the long black construct now hanging about three meters above the dais. Microphones are dangling from it by almost invisible threads, tiny spotlights are mounted on it, and unless I'm mistaken, there are speakers embedded in it as well.

Intersections of old and new. Ancient and modern. History and technology.

Legends and science. . .

The bagpipes start up in a long keening tune I recognize instantly. More than one Township from several Skycities have used this exact music as their theme during the Worldwide Inter-City Games. It's clear why - it automatically makes you want to _move_. Perfect for sporting events.

Also, apparently, perfect for dancing.

And then, Gwyllyn begins to sing.

Huh. I never knew this song had words. . .

_"Hark when the night is falling_   
_Hear! Hear the pipes are calling,_   
_Loudly and proudly calling,_   
_Down thro' the glen!"_

I smile. There is something impossibly charming about Gwyllyn's voice. I understand now why Colum is so proud of him.

"Ye dinnae meentae dance then, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Harold, as most of the table stands up.

"Not these first few dances, no," I raise my whisky glass, indicating I intend to savour it, "Perhaps in a while."

"Aye," he nods, claps Leo on the shoulder, and they both disappear into the milling crowd that has now gathered around the dance floor.

In seconds, Willie, Gilbert, Jamie, and myself are the only ones left sitting at our table. Jamie is still eating heartily, and Gil and Willie are having a companionable dram, talking about tomorrow's planned shinty match, and who is likely to win it. I hunch over my whisky, taking occasional sips, but most of my mind is still somewhere far away, wrapped up in strange, haunting words, sung in Gwyllyn's voice. . .

_"Towering in gallant fame,_   
_Scotland my mountain hame,_   
_High may your proud standards gloriously wave!"_

Jamie finishes his supper with a satisfied sigh, then sits back and pours himself a comfortable portion of the Lallybroch whisky. I raise my glass to him, and he cheerfully clinks his glass to mine.

"Jamie?" I ask, thoughtfully,"What _was_ that first song? He didn't announce the title."

"The Skye Boat Song?" he shrugs, "Aye, Gwyllyn allus sings it first thing. Reckon he's worn out the title by now."

The. . . sky. . . . boat. . .

Or sky city?

I shudder a tiny bit. Everything about that song was far too apt for me to be comfortable thinking of it yet. "Always the same song?"

"Weel, there's several versions of the lyrics. He always sings one or the other of 'em. I havenae heard them do exactly that arrangement before. But the music is always 'The Cuckoo In The Grove', regardless."

"I see." I look up at the people gathered around the dance floor, clapping loudly and joyously as the dancers go through their moves.

Dancers. . . moving to energizing, powerful music.

Just like the Druids on Craigh na Dun. . .

_"Land of my high endeavour,_   
_Land of the shining rivers,_   
_Land of my heart for ever,_   
_Scotland the brave."_

"Is there somethin' wrong, mo nighean?" he asks, softly brushing the back of my hand with his knuckles.

"No. No, not really."

Not _wrong_ , just unspeakably _strange_ , my lad. . .

Whatever is happening in my mind feels dangerously close to dissociation. But, I'm in public. I _can't_ fall apart, not now. I take a deep breath, marshaling all my strength, all my sanity, determined to get through the night.

"Just. . . keep me near you, please?"

Jamie nods, shifts in his seat a little, and looks very much like he wants to say something, but he doesn't, not for a very long minute.

_"Land of my heart for ever. . ._   
_Scotland, the brave!"_

He claps politely as the song ends, then gestures towards the dance floor, and offers me his arm.

"Shall we go watch them, then?"

"You. . . don't want to dance either?"

"Oh aye, I will. But a slow one first, an' only after a proper drink!" He drains his glass, and pours himself another.

I laugh a little, glancing over at the mildly raucous melee surrounding the dance floor, as the residents of Leoch good-naturedly chaff and shove each other while they sort out who will dance with who next, "Will they _let_ us sit idly by?"

He points at my still reasonably-supplied glass, and hefts his own, "We can probably get out of it for another dance oor two, aye."

"Right then, my lad."

I take his arm, and let him lead me across the room. I have to admit - it is highly comforting to be tucked this close to him.

A small, distant voice inside my mind is screaming at me, trying to get me to admit the next thing too - that I wouldn't complain overmuch if he were by my side like this for always, not just tonight.

No, don't go there right now, Beauchamp. Focus. Let his calm ground you. Just sit next to him, enjoy the music, and let everything else go by. . .

The band members shift their places. The man holding the small silver flute comes to the front to lead the next song.

Jamie finds us a spot at a table near a corner of the dance floor where we can sit and still see reasonably well. The next dance is a dizzyingly brisk thing, almost too fast for me to follow, all feet and skirts and kilts and tartan whirling and blending together with the music. I find it exciting, but the music is so headlong, so wild and alive that my brain has serious trouble keeping up with my senses.

Thankfully, it is relatively brief. So are the next three.

By then, though, Jamie has finished his drink, and I am nearing the end of mine.

"Slooing ut down a bit now," says Gwyllyn, taking the front position again, "with 'Wild Mountain Thyme'."

Jamie smiles, and holds out his hand, "This is one of my favourites, mo Sorcha. Will ye?"

I quickly finish my drink, and take his hand, "Of course. But go easy on me. It's been quite a while. . ."

I haven't gone dancing since Frank and I were dating. Before the war. Before. . . well, everything.

"S'alright, mo nighean," Jamie grins, lightly squeezing my fingers, "I ken how tae lead."

We find a place near one edge of the dance floor, not too far from our new seats. One of his hands settles on my lower back, and the other gently grips my hand, flexing his wrist a little in each direction to show me his lead-tells. Then the music begins, and with a deep breath, we're off.

_"O the summer time has come,_   
_And the trees are sweetly bloomin'._   
_And the wild mountain thyme,_   
_Grows around the bloomin' heather -_   
_Will ye go,_   
_Lassie,_   
_Go?"_

Jamie's eyes meet mine as we navigate the dance floor - slowly, but not too badly, if I do say so myself - and he smiles at me, so sweetly I hardly know what to make of him. . .

"Nae mattar how long it's been for ye, ye'er doin' grand, mo nighean."

I feel a blush come up on my face and neck - why I have no idea - and I can't help but smile back, "It's not the dancing, it's the partner, I assure you."

His smile widens. "Aye. 'Tis."

_"And we'll all go together,_   
_To pull wild mountain thyme,_   
_All around the bloomin' heather -_   
_Will ye go,_   
_Lassie,_   
_Go?"_

"They'll be layin' out the dessert trays soon, mo chridhe."

I look up from simultaneously counting my steps and trying to follow his tells, "Oh, will they?"

"Aye. An' Colum always has a box of those fancy French kind of chocolates sent tae his table. Filled wi' hazelnuts an' things, ye ken. Would ye like it if I went and asked for some from him?" His eyes are sparkling, but still, his voice has hardened a bit.

"You haven't let go of that yet, have you? That you're the first one to send me chocolates?"

"Et's only that I cannae _believe_ it, y'see. . ."

_"I will build my love a bower,_   
_By yon cool crystal fountain._   
_And round it I will pile,_   
_All the wild flowers o' the mountain._   
_Will ye go,_   
_Lassie,_   
_Go?"_

"Would you like to know the first thing Frank ever bought me? The only thing I've lost recently that I actually miss, and am sorry can't be replaced?"

"Aye. I would. Verrah much."

He steers us to a more open space on the dance floor.

_"And we'll all go together,_   
_To pull wild mountain thyme,_   
_All around the bloomin' heather -_   
_Will ye go,_   
_Lassie,_   
_Go?"_

"It was a little knotted bracelet of plain black cords."

"Just that?"

"Yes. Just that. Well, I called it a bracelet, but it went around my wrist twice - I used it as a necklace sometimes, and often tied up my hair with it. It barely cost anything for Frank to buy, and I _loved_ it. It was useful, beautiful, sturdy. . . and a thoughtful gift, which was the best thing of all about it."

_"I will range through the wilds,_   
_And the deep glen sae dreary,_   
_And return wi' their spoils,_   
_Tae the bower o' my dearie._   
_Will ye go,_   
_Lassie,_   
_Go?"_

"Sae what ye'er sayin' is. . ."

"I'm _saying_ \- the truffles are lovely, delicious, and special. Perfect, really. But they aren't _required_. I've never required such tributes, Jamie, not from anyone." I lean in closer, so he's sure to be the only one to hear, "Much as I appreciate them from you, don't get me wrong - but it's the thoughtfulness of them that counts." I meet his eyes, briefly, "I'll remember your note long after the chocolates have been forgotten."

He gives me a long look, and a beautiful half-smile that makes me wish we weren't in public.

By all the gods that may or may not exist, I want to kiss him. . .

_"And we'll all go together,_   
_To pull wild mountain thyme,_   
_All around the bloomin' heather -_   
_Will ye go,_   
_Lassie,_   
_Go?"_

He pulls me into a slightly more complicated set of steps. Despite the fact that it's been almost ten years since I was last on any kind of dance floor, I've fallen into a rhythm with Jamie, with an ease that shocks me. Sometime in the last few minutes, following his lead has become almost second nature. . .

_"Oh my true love she has come,_   
_An' I shall never have another,_   
_Who'll pull wild mountain thyme,_   
_All around the bloomin' heather._   
_Will ye go,_   
_Lassie,_   
_Go?"_

"Everyune far the last chourous!" calls Gwyllyn, and the nearly the whole room joins in,

_"And we'll all go together!_   
_To pull wild mountain thyme,_   
_All around the bloomin' heather -_   
_Will ye go?_   
_Lassie,_   
_Go?"_

As the song ends, Jamie embraces me tighter for a second, before dropping his hands and lightly applauding Gwyllyn and his men. I do so as well, then take his arm as we make our way back to our nearby seats.

The man with the silver flute comes forward again. A long line of couples begin to take their places for another set of fast, complicated dances.

I glance over at the Laird's group, and see that Dougal has left his place by Colum's side. I quickly scan the room, looking for my main opponent. I must keep track of him, more than any other person here tonight. . .

I find him a few tables away, asking one of the women sitting there to dance with him. I recognize her - she's Lily Bara, head shepherd. She nods, smiles, and takes Dougal's hand. The Cuckoos very pointedly do not begin the next song until he and she have taken their place at the head of the dancers.

I turn away, unable to watch this time. My mind is more crowded than the dance floor, more packed with whirling, twisting thoughts, and emotions that leap and twirl like living things. So much is happening, it ought to be overwhelming. I know the only reason it isn't is the fact that I'm currently so very, very happy. . .

I clutch onto Jamie's arm, letting his presence continue to ground me. I scoot just a little closer too, letting his warmth soothe away my tensions. Or, at least as many of them as it can, given our current situation. Although, for some reason, I feel sure this man is worth the effort it is taking to be out in public like this. . .

"Weel, laddie?" a familiar voice grumbles behind us, "Are ye evar goin' tae introduce me tae the lassie oor are ye goin' tae have me standin' heer like a dunderheid fer th'rest o' the night?"

"Murtagh!" says Jamie, rising and embracing his godfather, "Are ye and Claire no' introduced then? I thowt ye were. . ."

"Weel, no' officially. Nae'un's towld her my last name, ye ken. . ."

What? Yes they have. Well. . . I've heard it, at least. Haven't I? He's a Fraser, just like Jamie. I must have heard that somewhere, but. . . where? And when? I scramble to remember. Yes, I've definitely heard it. Only the once, true, back at that garage with the Rover, and then I was half asleep and in a different room, but still. . .

A highly significant look passes between the two men.

"Ah. I see," says Jamie. He bows and gestures formally, "Murtagh Fitzgibbons, may I present Mrs. Claire Beauchamp?"

Ah, indeed. Now, I also see. Murtagh is here under an assumed name, just like Jamie is. My Central-trained sense of propriety highly appreciates this superbly clever method of letting me know that without saying it straight-out.

Being literal doesn't mean you must be clumsy, or unsophisticated. We value wits in Central, very much indeed. I put out my hand to him, as coolly as if this is truly our first meeting. "Delighted, sir."

Murtagh takes my outstretched hand, and bows over it, formally. "A pleasure, Mistress Beauchamp."

I smile, slightly bemused. I'm entirely certain Murtagh is the only man here - no, the only man in the _world_ \- who could ever, in _any_ context, get away with calling me 'mistress'.

I nod at him, "We've spoken a few times before, Mr. Fitzgibbons, but always out of necessity."

A tiny bit of background tension relaxes at my use of his assumed name, "Aye, that's so."

"I understand you're master of the horses here at Leoch?" I gesture at the place across from me, inviting him to sit. Jamie nods at us both, then makes his way casually over to the buffet tables, stopping to have several pleasant chats with people along the way. Murtagh's sudden appearance forced me to let go of him, but I'm glad of that, now. Let Jamie have fun with his friends. I am not the only person in his world - a fact for which I am extremely grateful.

"Aye," says Murtagh, "It's work enough, an' good work too, bu' my team is more than equal tae it."

"I'd never dream of thinking otherwise, Mr. Fitzgibbons."

" _Meanin'_. . ." he pauses, significantly, "I'm no' essential tae the runnin' o' this place. Leoch can do jus' as well wi'out me. Tha' means I can, an' doo, follow my own agenda, ye ken." He glances in Jamie's direction, "Where he goes, I go. Be that ower mountain, oor sea, oor sand, through storm oor drought, inta prison, death, oor Hell itself - where he goes, I go. Ye ken?" He says the words slowly, deliberately, his voice light, but his eyes are narrowed at me, intently watching my reaction.

Murtagh has baffled me a little, ever since he roared down that hillside and wrenched me away from Black Jack's men, but now, suddenly, completely, I understand him. I have his whole measure, in one stunning, blinding flash. How, _how_ did I not see it before? He is almost as much of an anachronism as I am, only in the opposite direction. Behind that thick, black beard, and gruff, blunt voice, sits one of this world's last truly noble knights. A man who loves, hates, laughs, fights and thinks with such pure, instinctive chivalry as would have set him apart, even in ages long past, but it goes to make him utterly unique nowadays.

A rare gem of a man. . .

I suddenly understand Jamie a little better too. With such a prince for a godfather, how could he help but be princely himself?

"Do you know, I think I do 'ken'?" I say, with quiet awe.

Murtagh leans back, and regards me thoughtfully.

"Hmphm. Mebbe ye doo," he peers closely at my face for a minute, "Aye, I c'n see it - ye wear yer understandin' 'round yer eyes, like most lasses." He crosses his arms, "That bein' t'case, I'll doo ye the courtesy of _askin'_ ye - no' warnin' ye, like I planned tae." He sets his jaw, and looks briefly over at Jamie again, "Dinnae break his heart, lassie. Please. He's already had heartache enough foor a man twice his age - dinnae add tae it."

I look down at my hands and smile as much as I can. "I'm not in the habit of breaking hearts, Murtagh."

"I ken ye'er a fine quality lassie - an' nae doot yer first pick will have come from a greater an' better set o' lads than we can present ye heer - what can the Highlands offer ye in tha' way tha' ye'ev no' seen far tae often befoor, after all? But I'm an auld hen wi' jus' one chick, aye?" His nose wrinkles into a lordly sneer, "It scarce mattars tae me that ye'ev all tae lose and he's all tae gain - if ye cannae make him happy, it's all nowt."

"I've had more than my share of tragedies too, you know," I say, quietly, "I assure you, the gains and losses are quite the other way around - for the simple fact that I have nothing left to lose." His brow furrows at me, not quite believing it. "Everything, _everything_ has been taken away from me, Murtagh. Suddenly, violently - and mostly irrevocably. That day you rescued me, I was literally clawing to keep the one and only thing I have left." I look him square in the eyes, "And I'd have _lost_ my life if it weren't for you. So believe me, I'm not looking to inflict any more tragedy - on anyone. And certainly not on a man both of us respect and care deeply about."

He nods minutely, more going on behind his eyes than I can read, even with my new understanding of him.

"I'm glad ye didnae deny there was aught between ye," he says, finally, "I saw how he looked at ye while ye were dancin'. The lad's smitten. Bewitched. If ye cannae feel the same as he does. . . weel. A'least dinnae. . . _spurn_ him. Be easy on his heart. Hurt him as little as ye can. Aye?"

I smile, remembering everything Jamie and I did while walking around the fields, "It may surprise you to learn that he and I have already had a great deal of this conversation, Murtagh."

"Hev ye now?"

"Yes. And we. . . well, we've promised to both honour and never lie to each other."

His eyes widen a bit at that.

"And we've also decided that we're definitely in a relationship - this is our second official date."

" _This_ is?"

I nod, "Yes. This concert. If he hadn't asked me to be here, I wouldn't have come."

He leans forward, "So ye. . . _doo_ feel as he does?"

"No." I sigh, "Not yet. And maybe never. He knows that, and he's accepted it." I roll my empty whisky glass between my palms, "We both know what we're risking. We've decided to move forward anyway."

Murtagh shakes his head, "Fools, the pair of ye."

"Yes."

I manage to pack a great deal of meaning into that one syllable. Murtagh hears it, and understands. Exactly how _much_ he understands is anybody's guess, but the heavy disapproval that has been radiating from him suddenly lessens sharply.

"Weel. There's nae help fer it, I suppo-"

"'N our next song uz 'Sunshine on Leith'," Gwyllyn's announcement and the ensuing applause interrupts whatever Murtagh was going to say.

He doesn't seem annoyed, however, only lifting an eyebrow, and extending a hand to me, "Would ye care tae dance, Mistress Beauchamp?"

"I believe I would, Mr. Fitzgibbons."

He leads me to a place in the middle of the dance floor. I see Dougal a few couples over, this time with a woman I recognize from my first supper here. I don't know her name, but she was seated at the main table, very close to the High Table. She was one of the many who were listening intently while Colum and Dougal interrogated me.

_"My heart was broken, my heart was broken,_   
_Sorrow, Sorrow, Sorrow, Sorrow!"_

A great deal of the rest of the room sings along with Gwyllyn, and there are several other shouts of city and place names from people who are _not_ singing along. I look at Murtagh, baffled.

"Agh, it's jus' erryun's football clubs, dinnae fash," he says, leading me slowly but surely through a very simple set of steps, "There havenae been this many people livin' at Leoch foor centuries. What wi' the Clan Restoration Act, there's MacKenzies and other relatives heer from all over the _whorld_ , let alone Scotland."

"Oh. I see," I say, trying desperately to remember what 'football' is, "So that's why they all have different taste in sports teams?"

"Aye. Ye can take the football fan out o' his home club, but ye cannae take the home club out o' the football fan, ye ken?"

_"My tears are drying, my tears are drying,_   
_Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!"_

There are a few more shouts of place names, and Murtagh smiles ruefully, "Et's jus' the lot o' them tryin' tae learn tae live taegether."

"I _did_ notice a drastic change in the field history manuals about ten years ago. . ."

"Aye, tha's when the first big influx was. There's been folk livin' heer all along, mind, but not dozens and dozens like this - hundreds, really. Nearly two hundred now the Cuckoos are heer." He nods in Gwyllyn's direction as we swing closer to the stage for a moment, "An' a couple dozen moor day-workers whoo also eat an' sleep heer sometimes. . ."

"It's a lot to organize and deal with."

"Aye, 'tis."

"In that same vein, I have good news."

"Do ye? Praise be!"

He deftly steers us away from Dougal, into a little open space near one corner of the dance floor.

"Yes, I'm almost done walking the plots. One more day out in the fields should do it. The chem tests and biome-mapping will take another couple of days after that, but I should have at least a tentative crop plan by Wednesday."

"Agch, that's good tae hear, lassie," he says, smiling so warmly I want to stop dancing and hug him.

_"While I'm worth my room on this earth,_   
_I will be with you. . ."_

"So. . ." I say instead, "Manager's meeting on Thursday? Say, one P.M.? Right after lunch?"

"Et's a plan."

_"While the Chief, puts Sunshine On Leith,_   
_I'll thank him for his work,_   
_And your birth and my birth._   
_Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!"_

The music lasts a long time after the lyrics are over, Murtagh slowly navigating us back and forth across the flagstones, very carefully aiming to miss Dougal every time he manages to get anywhere near us.

I can't help but smile at Murtagh each time it happens. My rescuer. . .

It appears I do indeed have some formidable allies.

At last the song ends. While we are all still applauding, a man in kitchen livery comes up to the stage, and whispers a few words to Gwyllyn.

"I ha' the pleaseur ta announce that dessert uz being searved," he says, "So, we'll take thus opportunity ta play 'The Gael'."

There is a lot of applause at this, whether for dessert or for the music I am unsure, but the dance floor empties a great deal faster then I thought it would.

The lights come up in the main room, but remain dark over the stage, save for a single spotlight, now occupied by a lone bagpiper.

Apparently, whatever song he's about to play, no one wants to dance to it. Odd. Very odd. . .

"They usually play 'The Gael' between sets, ye ken," says Murtagh, seeing my plain confusion. "They mus' be doin' sae now sae they can get the modern instruments onstage while we'er still eatin'."

"Oh."

"Foor their second set, ye ken."

"No, I didn't. But it makes good sense."

Recorded music begins to play, full of sound effects and vocals unlike anything I've heard so far tonight. The six other members of the band, along with several people dressed in solid black, begin to move around the stage, setting up what I can soon see are an electric piano and a drum set, with all the attendant equipment.

The spotlighted bagpiper ignores them entirely, and after a minute, adds his own wailing, booming music to the recorded sounds.

It's a moving song, big, almost too big for even the Great Hall. It's an _outdoor_ kind of song. I've never been mountain climbing, but I imagine this sort of music would be the kind that would play in my head if I ever did.

Murtagh offers me his arm, and walks with me back to Jamie's regular table.

I smile when I see what he and the boys have been up to. There are two large trays of deep-fried chicken wings on the table, surrounded by bowls of sauces, heaps of used napkins, and scattered piles of discarded bones. I shake my head a little as I sit next to Jamie. I've never cared for chicken wings. Not that I've ever refused them when offered, only that I find them far too messy and labourious for their unremarkable payoff. But I know I'm usually in the minority on that. Clearly I am so here. Murtagh sits on my other side, and unhesitatingly serves himself up a plateful of them.

I take the last clean glass from the tray Tory brought, and pour myself a bit of the Irish whiskey. One sip, and I decide that Edan wasn't far wrong. It's smooth, and decidedly warming in the mouth, but far too delicately flavoured for my taste. After all the strongly smoky whiskies I've been having tonight, this one is like drinking alcoholic water. For a brief second, I feel just as Scottish as everyone else at the table. What utter shite!

I pull myself up short. Don't go painting every Township with the same anti-rust coat, Beauchamp! I'm sure there are hundreds of other Irish whiskeys that aren't like this. . . And also, who am I to say what is a quality drink or not? I like tea and Jamie doesn't. He likes coffee and I don't. Tastes differ. I nod at Leo and raise my glass to him. If this is what he likes to drink, then I'm _not_ going to rag on him for it.

"Ye dinnae like wings?" asks Jamie, noticing I'm not eating - rather a rarity for me, I suddenly realize.

"I've never been much of a fan."

"Weel, ye'ev nevar tried Mrs. Fitz's buffalo sauce." He pushes a bowl of almost neon-orange dip in my direction.

Ah. Then these must be mysterious 'buffalo wings' he mentioned. I have to admit - after the beautiful discovery that was the pizza, I was expecting more from these. I shrug, spoon some sauce over one, and take a small bite.

"Eh," I put the rest of it on Jamie's plate, "It is what it is." I grab a pre-dampened napkin from one of the several containers of them on the table, "And they're so _messy_."

Gerald bursts out laughing, "An' ye, a mechanic!"

Several others laugh too.

I roll my eyes and smirk, "I don't _eat_ engine grease, Gerald. I eat lightning and crap thunder!"

"Now why doesnae that surprise me?"

I cheerfully join in with the laughter this time.

By the time the boys are finishing up the wings, Gwyllyn and his team have succeeded in transforming the stage, and have redistributed themselves around it. The two drummers are now sitting behind the piano and the drum set, the two bagpipers are now holding a base guitar and what I am almost sure is a clarinet, and both the violinist and Gwyllyn have exchanged the acoustic instruments they've been playing for glossy, moss-green electric versions.

They're in the middle of what I assume is a sound check when four women in kitchen livery descend on our table, two removing all empty bottles, trays and glasses, all the dirty plates and napkins, and quickly wiping down the boards. Then, the other pair deliver us two large trays full of a wide variety of desserts on single-portion plates.

"An' there's make-it-yerself ice cream sanwiches an' sundaes ovar on the buffet now," says one of the women, "Enjoy!"

The four of them disappear back into the kitchens momentarily, only to re-emerge to perform the same service for the next table over. I look around, and there are several teams of kitchen staff doing the same thing all over the Hall.

A line quickly forms over by the buffet tables again. Jamie and most of the rest of the table get up to join them. He nudges my shoulder gently,

"Anything I can get ye, mo nighean?"

I shrug, "Ohh. . . coconut ice cream if they have it."

"Tha's all? No cookies? No fruit, no toppings?"

"Well. . . whatever you think I'd like," I smile up at him, "I won't complain."

As he nods and goes, the lights dim down again, and there are spotlights on the stage once more.

"'N wee'r back!" says Gwyllyn, hefting his electric harp-guitar, "Ta thank yoo all far your patience, we'll throw open the dance flor agan, and play ye 'Flower of Scotland'." He smiles at the applause, even though there's less of it this time, since so many people are still at the buffet.

For the same reason, it takes a little while for the dancers to assemble. One of the first to do so is Dougal, this time with a little brown-haired woman I've noticed sitting not too far away from us, in the under-balcony section. She has stood out to me not for her looks, or her actions, but because so few people have approached her all night. There are at least two empty places on either side of where she's been sitting, and I've not seen anyone say two words to her, not even the kitchen staff.

If there's anyone in the room who can say they've felt lonely in crowd tonight, I can bet it's her. A sympathetic part of me is very glad Dougal is at least doing her the courtesy of dancing with her.

Murtagh looks where I'm looking, and harrumphs.

"Daft numpty," he shakes his head, "I hoop he likes havin' his future told. . ."

I chuckle, "On the dance floor? That seems improbable, Murtagh."

"Weel, tha's Iona MacTavish. They say she has the Sight," he shrugs and looks slightly uncomfortable, "Et's about _all_ she has, poor dear, an' nae doot she cannae help it, but shee's _always_ tellin' folk their futures, whether they ask fer them oor no'. It makes mos' people avoid her, ye ken?"

I smile at what is surely a harmless eccentricity, "But is she ever right? That seems the main thing to me."

"Weel. . . et's odd. Shee's often right, aye, but tha's no' much of a surprise when som'un has the Sight. Nae, et's what shee's right _about_. Odd things. Private things. Infinitesimal things. Things that a person might no' hardly notice, an' forget about once over, were they no' paying attention. Things sae small ye would'nae think even the Sight could tell any'un about them. An' then. . ."

"Yes?"

Murtagh's lip twists, "Shee's been known tae offer tae. . . weel. _Change_ things about people. Impossible things. Eye colour. Place o' birth. Their grandparent's first names."

A tingle goes up my spine. A woman who knows intricate details about the future, and has offered to change strange things about the past? This sounds like a woman _I_ want to know. . . "And. . . has she?"

"Nae'un rightly kens. Some people say they've accepted her offers, but no one's ever noticed a change save the one who accepted it. Et's odd, since most o' the ones who mention it are the steady uns - ye wouldnae think they'd be lyin' _oor_ daft. Like auld Alain Cook who has Hill Farm down Cranesmuir way - he says he asked her tae change his eyes from brown tae green, and tha' they did change. But he's _always_ had green eyes, sae nae'un kens what he's on about."

"Weird."

"Aye," Murtagh grabs two plates from the dessert trays, and pushes one at me, "Heer, try this'un. All I c'n say is, et's a right good thing we dinnae burn witches annymoor, an' that's a fact."

"Amen to that." The plate he handed me has a small square of creamy light brown stuff on it. I take a nibble from the corner. Whatever it is, it's incredibly sweet, with an almost caramel-like flavour. It's too much on its own - it needs a cup of tea, or a handful of roasted peanuts or something to go along with it. . .

At this moment, a tall, slender man, wearing a fine grey vest and a kilt of the MacKenzie tartan, comes up to our table, and with a few murmured words, offers his arm to Tory. He takes it, grinning bashfully, and they make their way to the dance floor.

Ahh, that clears that up, I think. Perhaps here, 'gay' means homm? I certainly _hope_ it does. . . I'll be happy just so long as it does _not_ mean what it means in 2279, but this meaning would make a lot of sense, in context with what Tory was saying when he first used the word. Now that I have an info-screen again, I make a mental note to look the word up tomorrow, just to make sure. . .

"A coconut ice cream sandwich, made wi' white-chocolate an' macadamia nut cookies - an' a strawberry daiquiri - fer the lady," says Jamie, putting a glass and small plate in front of me, "An' two scoops o' plain vanilla wi' shortbread an' raspberries on the side fer the auld man." He grins, and hands Murtagh a small bowl.

"Agch. Ya disrespectful wee plague," Murtagh grumbles, an affectionate twinkle in his eye, "Wheer did ye learn tae be sitch a weapon?"

Jamie bellows a laugh and punches him in the shoulder, "Weer d'ye suppose, mo goistidh?" He goes back to the buffet line once again, this time to get his own dessert, I assume.

One by one, the boys come back to the table, each laden with their dessert, and one or two with a fresh bottle of whisky from the bar.

At last, enough dancers have assembled, and Gwyllyn starts up the music. After the first few measures, I realize that I've heard this song before as well, if only very occasionally.

_"O Flower of Scotland,_   
_When will we see,_   
_Your like again. . ."_

I try the 'ice cream sandwich' - which, I must say, is an invention like I've never imagined, but that I find quite brilliant - and it turns out I was right to trust Jamie's intuition in this matter. The combination is sweet, but not too sweet, and the tangy fruitiness of the drink cuts right through the heavy richness of the cookies and coconut cream. Experimentally, I take another bite of the caramel stuff, and take a sip of the daiquiri. Mixed together, they're more than palatable. . .

"Sae I see ye'ev finally tasted the tablet, then," says a voice I recognize.

"Geillis!" shouts half the table, and she sits down between Peter and Gerald, greeting them just as cheerfully.

"Sorrae I'm sae late - I had things tae doo a' th'office, an' then I hadtae make Arthur his supper, and then. . ." she sighs, in one great gust of breath, "Weel. I'm heer now." She eagerly grabs three different plates of desserts from the trays, "Wha' ha' I missed?"

"No' much, Mrs. Duncan," says Jamie, returning to sit next to me, and nodding politely at Geillis, "An' bettar late than nevar, aye?" He sets down a large glass tureen of sliced fruit, topped with four scoops of variously coloured ice cream - different flavours, I assume - covered with all manner of toppings and sauces, and finished with a huge dollop of whipped cream.

It's generous and uninhibited, just like Jamie, and I can't help smiling at him over it.

_"The Hills are bare now,_   
_And Autumn leaves,_   
_Lie thick and still. . ."_

"Aye, I was jus' saying' tae Mrs. Beauchamp heer," Geillis looks at me, mischevously, "Tha' t'is good when ye'ev finally tride th'sweet sumthin' ye'ev been waitin' on, isnae tha' right?"

"I'm sorry you're here alone, Mrs. Duncan," I say, formally, trying to head this subject off, "I was looking forward to meeting your husband tonight."

_"Those days are past now,_   
_And in the past,_   
_They must remain. . ."_

"Arthur? He hates these sorts o' things, puir lamb."

She pointedly takes a bite of what looks to me like bread pudding.

Then, thankfully, she gets into a discussion with Peter about inoculating this season's 'calves', whatever those are, and I can focus on enjoying my dessert.

_"But we can still rise now,_   
_And be the nation again,_   
_That stood against him. . ."_

"Everyune now!" calls Gwyllyn, and nearly the entire room joins in -

_"Proud Edward's army,_   
_And sent him homeward,_   
_To think again!"_

As the music fades, everyone raises their glasses in salute.

"Alba gu Bràth!"

It echoes around the table and around the hall - "Alba gu Bràth! . . . Alba gu Bràth! . . . Alba gu Bràth! . . ."

I raise my glass, but say nothing.

I know what that phrase means.

Scotland Forever.

I know what it means for the same reason I know what a kilt is, and why I've heard some of the music from tonight before. The same reason I know the first thing about _either_ battle of Culloden.

Cold Island 12 is an important place.

That's the only reason I know anything about Scotland. That's the only reason I was _taught_ anything about Scotland. A country that doesn't _exist_ anymore. And what exists in its place is nothing but a poor, plastic facsimile of what I see before me here and now.

Bits and pieces of this culture survive nuclear Armageddon - just like parts of most cultures do. But in two hundred years, that's all that will be left. A tattered remnant of what was once so sure, so real. . . so _free_.

I know - better than anyone else here - Scotland is _not_ Forever.

"Ye wilnae try tae say _this_ salute then, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Peter, mockingly.

I shake my head, trying to banish my fateful thoughts.

"Oh?" drawls Leo, "Why no'?"

I shrug, "Well, I'd only mangle it." I take a slow sip of my daiquiri, "And as far as I'm concerned, the phrase 'Scotland Forever' should _never_ be taken as a joke."

I say it casually enough, but for the first time since the beginning of the concert, there is complete silence around our table. It only lasts a few seconds, but in that time, I think I see a tiny amount of reluctant respect appear in the faces around me. Certainly Murtagh's expression relaxes slightly, and Arnold deigns to look at me, for the first time all night.

For a few seconds, I'm one of them - not just The Sassenach.

Perhaps it is this that prompts Harold to do what he does next. Perhaps it isn't.

He's sitting at the other end of the table this time, across from Gil. He gets up and comes around, stopping close behind Murtagh, where it's easy for me to turn to see him.

"Would ye care tae dance, Mrs. Beauchamp?" he asks, bowing politely.

I look at him closely for a few seconds before answering. I have no idea where this is coming from. He doesn't appear to be taunting me, nor is anyone else holding back laughter, as though there is some joke involved here. No, his request appears genuine.

"Very well, Mr. Mackenzie." I nod and stand.

I've barely cleared the bench before Jamie's hand is on my back, running up and down my spine in a gesture far more intimate than its innocence suggests.

"Would ye like me tae save ye some more of the tablet?" he asks, with such artless affection I can't help but smile.

He's clearly establishing his territory, the arrogant, possessive, _ridiculous_ man.

Well then. Two can play at that game.

Besides, it's probably high time to admit I am, in fact, 'Jamie's Girl'.

I run my hand across his shoulders in an equally innocent and unmistakably intimate gesture, "Of course, my lad. And some of that bread pudding too?" He nods. I lean down and press my lips briefly to his temple.

All the conversations around the table stop, and everyone who wasn't already staring turns to look at us, shocked expressions on their faces.

I particularly enjoy Geillis's look of stunned uncertainty.

"You're all acting like you've never seen a woman kiss her boyfriend before!" I grin, and look saucily at Jamie. The glint in his eyes tells me he's more than pleased at this development.

"Ye'er. . . astonishin', Sassenach," says Gil, shaking his head.

Jamie inclines his head towards Gil, then smirks up at me, "Weel, he may be an arse _and_ an eejit, but in this case he happens tae be right, mo nighean."

I grin fondly, shake my head, and briefly kiss him again, this time on the lips. "We'll be back in a bit, my lad."

"Mmphm, have fun," he grunts, with seeming indifference.

But as I turn to take Harold's arm, Jamie reaches back, and slaps me smartly on the arse.

In full view of everyone.

While suggestively smirking at me.

I blink, stunned for a second, as is everyone else. Of all the ways he'd first touch me there, this is the very _last_ way I expected. . . and with an audience, too!

Of course, the audience is why he did it at all. . .

It takes me a second to decide not to be angry.

Much. . .

I whirl back to him, and grab him by the tie, dragging his mouth to mine as I hiss, "You. . . _beast_! I _always_ have fun."

The kiss I give him then is one I'd _much_ rather not have had an audience for, but the cheering and wolf whistles almost make up for it.

I take that back. The look of utter disbelief on Geillis's face _totally_ makes up for it.

Territory established indeed.

I stand, turn, very deliberately loop my arm through Harold's, and start walking us towards the stage.

"So. A dance, you said?" I say, cheerfully.

"Is. . . is et. . . alright?" He looks uncomfortably back at the table.

I know he's worried about Jamie.

More specifically, he's worried about touching Jamie's _property_.

Inwardly, I sigh. We'd better nip _that_ idea right in the bud. . .

I shake my head at him, "We're _dating_ , Harold - not colonizing each other. He doesn't own me, and he certainly doesn't make my decisions for me. I can dance with whoever I want to, and so can he. Unless you're planning on feeling me up, or something else disgusting he'd want to protect me from?"

He looks adorably appalled, "What? Noo, a'coorse no'. . ."

"Well then. No harm, no foul."

"Next up uz our good host's own favaroute, 'Loch Lomund'!" calls Gwyllyn, cheerfully.

When Harold and I reach the dance floor, he is charmingly clumsy about not wanting to touch me - on my hip, or my back, or anywhere. Eventually, we compromise, and take each other by the forearms, like some sort of pitiful, on-the-floor-trapeze act.

I can't help but smile at the poor fellow.

_"O whither away my bonnie May,_   
_Sae late an' sae far in the gloamin'?. . ."_

It takes an uncomfortably long time for us to settle into the dance. We finally reach a sort of rhythm just as Gwyllyn charges into the famous chorus -

_"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,_   
_I'll be in Scotland afore ye. . ."_

At that, Harold looks directly at me, clearly extremely determined to say something, and have it over, "I'm. . . sorrae fer how things began taenight, Mrs. Beauchamp."

I blink rapidly for a few seconds. Of all the things I hoped might result from tonight's efforts, this one never even made the list. A genuine 'I'm sorry' from one of the main instigators of the verbal duel? That almost _never_ happens.

Live and learn indeed!

"Are you really? That's impressive. I don't often get an apology." I nod, solemnly, "Accepted, Mr. Mackenzie. Just so long as no one is forcing you to do so?"

He looks instantly confused and abashed, "Noo, nae'un did. . . an' et's Harry tae my friends."

"Harry," I say, smiling.

"Ye said. . . often? Ye'ev been greeted that way afore?"

"More times than I find pleasant to recall."

"I. . . I didnae. . . I mean, we. . ." he sets his jaw, with a beautiful blend of embarrassment and stubbornness, "We ought tae have done bettar by ye."

"Yes. You ought to have," I say, practically.

He makes a round Scottish noise mixed with a laugh, "Murtagh said ye kent yer business, but I didnae knoo yer business was properly tongue-lashin' Scots!"

A-ha! So that must be why I got so few questions about being Farm Manager. Murtagh has been talking me up. But he must have done so particularly cleverly, if these men accepted my professionalism without question, but still found it necessary to be ugly at me for being an outlander and a woman.

Meaning he found some way of talking me up that would still let me establish myself with them, in my own way, in my own time.

My estimation of Murtagh, already high, increases by several points.

My appreciation for Jamie almost doubles. _He_ was willing to give me a chance without needing _any_ of that. . .

I smile at Harry, "Oh, only one of you has earned a _proper_ tongue lashing, let me tell you. And even he hasn't _quite_ earned such a reward yet. . ." I glance back at our table, just in time to see Jamie throw his head back in a gigantic laugh.

Harry's hands tighten on my arms as he desperately tries not to blush. He can't _quite_ manage it. "Ef. . . ef I'd knoon. . ."

I chuckle at him, "If you'd _known_ I was dating Jamie, we'd never have had any of this out, and the lot of you would have sat around the stables all day, festering about the damn Sassenach who bewitched your friend and stole him from you. You'd _hate_ me, and you might even get close to hating him, too. Now, wouldn't you?"

Ruefully, he nods.

"Well, I'll gladly endure an ugly reception or two if it prevents that. Particularly given the apology - that covers a multitude of sins, very much so." I pause, and decide to address the elephant in the room, "Besides, I'm sure it must be nice to have an English person around you can snipe at without. . . well, without fear of reprisals."

His eyes go wide, "We didnae-"

"Oh, come on," I interrupt, "Put the demands of hospitality aside, and let's be honest for a second. It's my accent that really offends you, isn't it?"

"Weel. . . aye. . . but-"

"And with good reason, as far as I can see. You have very little motivation to love people who sound like I do. But I can't help where I was born. Just like you can't."

He smiles a bit, and I pat his elbow, indicating he should move us to a new place on the dance floor. Slowly, he does.

"Now then," I continue, "I might indeed 'know my business', but I've got an awful lot to learn about this job in particular - and I can't do it alone. So, you manage the stables whenever Murtagh and Jamie are away, right?"

"Aye. How did. . .?" he asks, mouth agape.

"Oh, that was obvious." I shrug, "You're were one of the two ringleaders there at the table - Gil was the other. I assume he's Marc's main assistant?"

Harry nods, transfixed.

"Well, both of you bent immediately to Jamie, but you're the only one who mentioned Murtagh. So I assumed you worked in the stables and Gil was more among the barns and coops and such. You'd both work with Jamie almost every day that way, but only you would see Murtagh regularly."

"Ach. Ye'er an observant wee thing," he pulls himself up at that, startled and embarrassed by his sudden familiarity with me, "Uhhm. Mrs. Beauchamp."

I smile, "Claire is fine. I also don't mind 'lassie', for when you're teasing me."

He blinks, clearly unprepared to have been forgiven so thoroughly and readily, "Ye. . . ye dinnae mind some teasin'?"

"Of course not. It's what friends do. I'm hardly perfect at everything, and even if I was, that wouldn't put me above a good-natured ribbing. But a friendly jibe is a totally different creature than a barbed attack - and I can tell the difference a mile away." I raise an eyebrow, " _Ye ken_?"

"Och, I ken," he grins, still shamefaced, "I've still got the bruises from yer last counter-attack."

"Well, I only do that when necessary, I promise. I actually rather like it here."

"Doo ye now?"

"Yes. Oxford is far from the ugliest place in the world, but it can't hold a candle to the Highlands of Scotland, and that's a fact."

"I dinnae imagine there's anywhere that could, ever."

Oh, you have no idea, laddie. Thanks to Safnet screens, this is still the most beautiful place for thousands of kilometers, especially in the hellscape that is 2279. . .

_"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,_   
_I'll be in Scotland afore ye,_   
_For me and my true love will never meet again. . ."_

"Bu' still, I wouldnae blame ye ef ye found a place wi' all yer friends and connections in it moor appealin'. Seein' as et's yer hoom, ye ken."

_". . .By the bonnie bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."_

I smile sadly, "I have no connections left in Oxford, Harold. None worth speaking of, at any rate. And I have no idea where my home is, at the moment."

"Ye dinnae?"

"No."

His eyes light up, "An' heer I thowt ye were slummin' et! Tha' makes all the difference, ye ken. Ye _want_ tae be heer."

Huh. Murtagh didn't know that either. Nor that I had _no_ resources beyond Colum's grace. Nowhere to run to, even. It appears that, whatever else he may be, Dougal is not a gossip. But after his opening move of attempting to isolate me, putting about humiliating or damaging stories about me would have been such an _easy_ follow-up attack. Given what he knows about my history, I'm incredibly surprised he hasn't used my past to his advantage. . .

I wonder what he's planning. It must be something. He can't have just abruptly ended our war - he's not the type. And even if he were, I haven't gone on the offensive yet. He has no _reason_ to end it.

Yet.

"I _have_ to be here. I have nowhere else to be." I whisper. And I say it so quietly, so bitterly, even Harold understands that it's not an insult, but the plain, painful truth. I raise my chin, defiantly, "But yes. I want to be here, too."

"Tha's incredibly good tae ken," he sighs a bit, and finally realizes the implications of what he's saying, "No' tha' I'm sae glad tae _heer_ et, mind! I mean. . ."

I laugh to cut him off, "I get it, Harry. I'd have been offended long before now if I was taking it that way." I pat his elbow again, this time in reassurance, "Anyway - when Murtagh and Jamie are away, then, I expect you are the acting Manager for the horse's stables and grazing lands?"

"Aye. That I am."

"Well then. I'll expect you to attend the Manager's meeting in Davie Beaton's old office this Thursday, after lunch. You _and_ Gil. And whoever is main assistant to Lily Bara, as well."

"Aye. I'll tell them."

"Excellent."

_"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,_   
_I'll be in Scotland afore ye. . ."_

He takes a deep, bracing breath, "May. . . may I invite ye tae the shinty match taemorrow? Et's only that ye seemed sae interested, an' we-"

I laugh, "I'd love to. I don't think Jamie would let me miss it anyway. . ." I look up for a second, and see the man himself, waiting for us at one edge of the dance floor. Harry sees him too, and begins navigating us that way.

_". . . For me and my true love will never meet again. . ."_

"Och, aye. It'll be modern kilts versus belted-plaids, sae ye'll need tae ken who tae cheer fer."

"I'll. . . endeavour to tell the difference."

We both laugh heartily.

"Agch, I nevar thowt I might laugh _with_ a Sassenach. Thankee, Claire."

"No, thank _you_. I _am_ the outlander. I have everything to learn."

_". . . By the bonnie bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."_

"Ach, ye'er a lucky bastard, Jam," he clouts Jamie hard on the shoulder as he hands me over to him, "Mek shure ye deserve 'er, aye?"

"I intend tae," he murmurs, so low I'm sure Harry can't hear him, especially through the surrounding applause. It scarcely matters, though. He's off to the dessert buffet tables without a backward glance at either of us.

Jamie throws one arm around my shoulders, "Now tha' was one encounter I wasnae predictin'."

"Neither was I."

"How did it go?"

"He apologized, and we talked. He was really quite pleasant."

Jamie grins and says, jokingly, "Should I be jealous?"

I elbow him lightly in the ribs, "No, you should be glad I duel with _words_. Because if it was pistols at twenty paces, at least three of your friends would have bullet holes in them by now, and besides being the last thing I want to do to them, that sort of duel is far more difficult to just forgive and forget."

"Ye reached forgiveness, then?"

"Yes, and beyond. We're tentatively friends at the moment. We'll see how things go at the Manager's meeting on Thursday."

He raises one eyebrow, "Och, an' why have I no' heard of this meetin'?"

"Haven't had a chance to tell you, my lad. I only decided it would be on Thursday this afternoon, and I only told Murtagh the details half an hour ago."

He looks teasingly affronted, "Sae ye towld _Murtagh_ befoor _me_?

I snort a laugh, "Oh, you're invited too, don't worry. I could hardly leave my _boyfriend_ out, now could I?" I wrap an arm around him and pull him tight to my side.

"I. . . hehm. . . I'm sorrae if I overstepped back there. . ." he glances back at our table, and pats my shoulder in a discreet mime of his slap on the arse.

I give him a faint smile, "What makes you think you did?"

"Weel, for a second ye looked like ye were goin' tae be mad, an'-"

"Well, for a _second_ , I _was_ mad. But I get why you did it, and you're not likely to ever need to do it again." I slip my hand into the far pocket of his jacket, "Which _is_ a warning to never do it again, just so we're clear. At least in public." I grin a bit, and feel a blush come up on my cheeks, "But uhm. . . you see, I've been wanting to kiss you like that all night. You just gave me an excuse. . ." I lean lightly against his chest, and he slowly lowers his hand from my shoulder until it is resting quite comfortably on my hip.

"Och, weel, in that case, the night isnae over yet, mo Sorcha."

The violinist comes forward to lead the next dance. Jamie gestures at the couples taking their places, "Now that ye'ev seen a few, would ye like tae try yer hand at a reel?"

"Oh, I don't know, Jamie. . ."

"C'mon. They always finish up the set wi' a simple one."

"Well. . . If I barrel into someone and break their arm, just you make sure they know who to blame, okay?"

He shouts a laugh, and pulls me onto the dance floor, "Fair enough, mo nighean."

We take our places, and then the violinist begins to play. . .

If I thought the music was dizzyingly untamed before, being in the middle of it amplifies everything tenfold. Jamie _is_ right - the steps are fairly simple, and it only takes me a few seconds to catch onto the rhythm of it. But _holding_ onto the rhythm is another matter. It's so fast, so whirling and breathless that my world narrows to just this one thing, this one place, and time has no meaning at all. There are skips and leaps, spins and twirls, Jamie's hands and strangers' hands in quick succession, a vortex of light and sound and colour, and I am bright flash of red and autumn-brown, glimpsed between the trees of a forest rendered mute by the pounding of drums, speeding forth to the ends of the earth, galloping over moss and grass and stone. . .

I'm not sure how I coalesce back into myself, but when the music stops, I find I am in Jamie's arms, rather frantically trying to catch my breath.

He grins down at me, "Sae ye _allus_ have fun, d'ye?"

"Yes," I say, still gasping between words, "Lots. Of fun."

"We'll be takin' our set break now," calls Gwyllyn, "'N when we come back, we'll be takin' audaence requests!" He waves down the applause and gestures at the small info-screen he's placed on the drum set, "Please mak your requests en the next half-hour, 'n we'll see yoo then."

He bows, and leaves the stage, as do the rest the band.

"Be ri' back, mo Sorcha, I ha' a request tae make. . ." Jamie says, leaving me standing near the drinks tables.

I go over and grab another glass of ice water, and down almost the entire thing in one go.

Whatever that dance was, it was a great deal more than I was expecting.

Recorded music is playing out of the speakers again, though the overhead lights have not come up this time, lending the subdued flickering from the scattered large pillar candles an almost campfire quality. The warm murmur of voices and the cool play of shadows emphasize just how large this room truly is, and just how many people are currently in it.

Even without a wild, breathless dance with Jamie, tonight would have felt like an adventure.

Which is good, because I was born on Skycity 15, a hundred and seventy years _in the future_ , and I am currently living and working with people long dead, in a country that no longer exists.

Every single bit of this ought to feel like an adventure. . .

Through the aimless milling crowd of people still happily eating and drinking, I see Colum and his retinue rise from their seats, as if preparing to leave.

Jamie reappears next to me.

"Are they going already?" I ask, indicating the Laird's group with a nod.

"Aye, Colum doesnae usually stay for the request set. Dougal probably will, though."

"Oh, really?" I say, not knowing exactly how to feel about that.

I pick up another glass of water and start walking back to our table. Gently, Jamie takes my arm.

"Mmm. Now _there_ is an encounter I _am_ expectin'. Aye?"

I grunt a half-mocking laugh, "More like dreading."

He tones his voice down to a murmur so low I have to strain to hear it, "Would ye like me an' Murtagh tae run interference for ye?"

"You mean prevent him getting near me?"

"Aye."

"No, that would be counterproductive. He'd just find another way, when you two weren't around. And I don't think I want to provoke him like that. I _would_ appreciate it if you both stood for guard duty, though."

"Gladly," he says, running a hand across his chin, "Meanin'?"

"Meaning, keep an eye on me. If he tries to corner or confront me, don't stop him, but don't let him get me out of sight either. And don't swoop in unless things get really bad, or you see me trying to make direct eye contact with you. Which will mean things have gotten really bad. Alright?"

He looks a bit sour about it, but things have gone very well so far tonight, so I think he's starting to trust my judgement about what I say I can do, and what help I say I need.

"Alright. We'll do that." He smiles and seats me next to Murtagh, while he goes off to retrieve something from the bar.

Murtagh is deep into a slightly strange story about an escaped horse he once found in a 'swimming pool' - whatever that may be - when Jamie returns with a tray full of empty shot glasses, and two very strange bottles of alcohol. The first one is filled with a clear, bright blue-green liquid, and the second is full of an opaque something that is so violently pink, it appears to glow, even in the low light.

"Strawberries an' Cream vodka!" squeals Geillis, grabbing the bottle of pink stuff, "Jammie, ye'er a _saint_!" She takes two of the shot glasses, and rapidly fills them, sliding one insistently over to me. "Ye'el _love_ this stuff, pet, _trust_ me. . ."

I smile a bit bemusedly as I take a sip. I'm not certain I trust Geillis about _anything_ just yet. . .

But the vodka is well flavoured, despite its poisonous colouring, and surprisingly, not overpoweringly sweet.

Smirking a bit, I confidently down the shot.

Much as I do love whisky, vodka is _far_ more in my township.

Province.

Whatever. . .

I slide the empty glass back over to Geillis, "So, what flavour is the teal?"

She picks the bottle up and turns it to look, "Vanilla coconut. Mmm. No' _as_ good, bu' still _verrah_ nice." She fills both our glasses, and this time I take the shot without hesitation.

"I think I prefer that one."

"D'ye really?"

"Yeah - it doesn't taste quite as artificial."

She pours herself another shot of the strawberry and sips it contemplatively. "Maybe no', bu' tha's most like because ye havenae had this'un wi' Mrs. Fitz's strawberry shortcake! Divine, pet, simply _divine_!"

I smile, and sip my water. When we can manage to stay out of innuendo territory, I'm finding myself liking Geillis more and more. I'm unsure why, exactly, but I don't let it bother me at the moment. I pull a piece of ice into my mouth and let it dissolve slowly on my tongue. I love ice, and I so rarely get to have it nowadays, seeing as it's even more expensive than hot tea. . .

Jamie pours two shots of the teal vodka, and hands one to Gil.

"Over the lips. . ." says Gil.

"Past the gums. . ." replies Jamie.

"Look out stomach here it comes!" they both say together, and take the shots.

I smile and laugh a bit at them, not just because I find what they are doing funny, but because a tiny nugget of calming, homelike ease has made its way into my heart from somewhere. Here I am, surrounded by strangers, in a strange place, and a strange time, but still, there are constants. Men and women, and music, and food and drink haven't changed so much in the past two hundred years - nowhere near so much that I cannot relate to what I see, hear, smell and feel all around me.

For a brief moment, I can almost imagine myself staying here. Finding a job, finding a home. Making a life. Being repaid in full for everything that Fate owes me. A house. A family. A future.

But to what end?

The actual future comes back to me with such force it completely wipes the smile off my face. I pour myself another shot of the coconut vodka, and down it with a determination I've never felt before.

I am here. In the past. The power to change things rests in my hands.

If the world owes me a future, then I owe the world one too.

Perhaps that is Fate as well. . .

A long peal of drums and guitar music roll out from the still-darkened stage. I can just see the outlines of the band members against the great tapestry covering the wall behind them. A spotlight illuminates Gwyllyn the moment he starts to sing.

_"Guess who just got back today?"_   
_Them wild-eyed boys that had been away._   
_Haven't changed that much to say,_   
_But man, I still think them cats are crazy!_

_They were askin' if you were around,_   
_How you was, where you could be found._   
_Told 'em you were livin' downtown,_   
_Drivin' all the old men crazy."_

Lights come up on the rest of the band -

_"The boys are back in town,_   
_The boys are back in town!"_

Every member of the band is now wearing a half-unlaced linen tunic tucked into varying colours of leather trousers. The violinist is wearing green, the drummer red, the bassist purple. . .

_"You know that chick that used to dance a lot,_   
_Every night she'd be on the floor, shakin' what she got._   
_When I say she was cool she was red hot,_   
_I mean, she was steamin'. . ."_

Jamie surreptitiously nudges his boot up against my foot.

I'm about to nudge him back when I pause.

That was just a bit too apt, wasn't it?

After that Sky Boat song, I'm suspicious of suspiciously too-apt things.

Or maybe it's just the vodka taking effect. . .

_"The boys are back in town,_   
_The boys are back in town!"_

Just to make sure, I lean over and whisper to him, " _This_ isn't your request, is it?"

He smiles at me fondly, but with more than a little bit of mischief in his eyes, "Nae, this is Gwyllyn's usual opening song for his second set."

I raise a suspicious eyebrow, "Really?"

"I promise," he nods.

But there is still a sly sort of look about him. . .

"So, what _is_ your request?"

"Ye'll ken when ye hear it."

I roll my eyes, "Ugh! I _hate_ surprises."

"My experiences wi' ye tells me otherwise. . ."

I grumble at him, " _Fine_ \- I hate surprises I have to _wait for_."

"T'will be worth it, mo ghràidh."

"Is that a promise too?"

"Aye. 'Tis."

_"That jukebox in the corner blastin' out my favorite song!_   
_The nights are getting warmer, it won't be long,_   
_Won't be long till the summer comes,_   
_Now that the boys are here again._

_The boys are back in town,_   
_The boys are back in town. . ."_

By the end of the song, Jamie's leg is pressed very firmly to mine.

I find I don't mind. . .

"'N now far our first request - 'Throw The 'R' Away'," says Gwyllyn, grinning through the hoots and cheers, "Thus'un goes out ta any Sassenachs that may be en the audaence."

There are a goodly number of glances and chuckles around our table.

I find I don't mind them, either. . .

_"Uvbin soh sahd,_   
_Sence yeu said my accen' t'was bahd._   
_Hee's worn a frauwn,_   
_Thass Caledoughnian cloown."_

I instantly start laughing. Gwyllyn's over-exaggerated Scottish accent is _hilarious_. It's clearly meant to be funny, because everyone around me is grinning and laughing at him too.

_"E'm jus' goin' tae hav'tae leahrn tae hesitate,_   
_Tae mek shure my whords on yer Saxon ears don' ghrate,_   
_Bu' I wouldnae't knoo a single whord tae say,_   
_Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey."_

This is emphatically not the time or place to have a realization, but it still happens. . .

"Saxon!" I shout at Jamie over the noise, "That's where the word 'Sassenach' comes from, isn't it?"

"Aye! Well spotted!"

He's laughing too, at me or the song I have no clue.

Maybe it's both.

Regardless, my 'Saxon ears' haven't heard anything so delightful in a long time. The audience starts clapping along, and I happily join in.

_"Yeu saeigh tha' ef I wanna get aheed,_   
_The languwage I use shoul' be left foer deid,_   
_Et doesnae't pleese yer eaar._   
_An' though yeu tell et lik' ah leg pull,_   
_Et seems ye'er stell full o' John Bull,_   
_Yeu jus' refuuse tae heer._

_Oh what c'n I doo,_   
_Tae bee undearstood by yeu?_

_Perhaps fer some money,_   
_I coul' talk like a bee drippin' honey!_

_E'm jus' goin' tae hav'tae leahrn tae hesitate,_   
_Tae mek shure my whords on yer Saxon ears don' ghrate,_   
_Bu' I wouldnae't knoo a single whord tae say,_   
_Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey._

_Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey._

_Flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo. . . the 'R'. . . awhey!"_

Gwyllyn crows into his mic, and the applause is much louder and longer than usual.

I find I thoroughly agree.

Once we've all settled down again, I gesture to take in the entire table.

"Whoever requested that - thank you. I haven't had such a good laugh for _ages_."

"A Sassenach wi' a sense of humour aboot et!" grunts Edan, with such a shocked voice I'm fairly certain he was the one who requested it, "Nevar thowt I'd see the day. . ."

"Oh, come on. We aren't _all_ joyless brutes."

There are a lot of shrugs and a couple murmurs of "Could've fooled me!".

I just smile.

"I'm _sure_ the lot of you know as well as I do - jokes are like drinking with friends. And sometimes, the round's on you. That's just the way of things," I take a bite of the bread pudding Jamie saved for me, and shrug, "Might as well take a laugh when you can, I say."

"'N the dance flor uz open agan with our next request, 'Clocks'," says Gwyllyn, so soberly that it's clear it will be a slow one this time.

Half the table, including Geillis, Harry and Murtagh, get up to find a partner. The rest settle into the pleasant lethargy that usually follows a good long laugh. Jamie is deep into a discussion with Gil about some pregnant cows they're dealing with. It all sounds highly technical to me, but it's probably no more than the basics anyone can pick up when they work on a farm around here.

On the ground, that is. With soil farms. And cows.

It is strange to think of now, but just two weeks ago, I had forgotten that cows even _existed_. . .

The piano and harp guitar begin to play, rolling and melding and wavering into a melody I instinctively fall into. . .

_"The lights go out and I can't be saved,_   
_Tides that I tried to swim against,_   
_Have brought me down upon my knees,_   
_Oh I beg, I beg and plead, singing. . ."_

My mind spreads thin on the surface of the music, swirling back into memories so close, so vital, and still so far, far from me now. . .

_"You are, you are,_   
_You are, you are. . ."_

Frank, and his good-morning smile under his untidy, sleep-touseled hair. The joy of sharing a small pot of tea so hot it made the steel teacups almost unbearable to hold. The sharp, acid cold of the morning air that slanted its way into our small apartment when he opened the door to leave for work. The bracing posture I always adopted when I would follow a few minutes later. The noise and motion and routine of my farming station. A caf for lunch, sometimes with Frank, if his sanitation rounds brought him close enough to that township at the right time of day. Hours and hours in the lab, coaxing nutrition from tired gene pools, forcing life back into failing strains of plants. A water distribution station for tea. On the main farming floor, a crop regulator in pieces all around me, as I search for the broken part deep inside its metal shell. Home, for a supper of bean and carrot stew, and dense, flat corn bread spread with tasteless, oily margarine.

A kiss from my husband for dessert. . .

_"Confusion that never stops,_   
_The closing walls and the ticking clocks, gonna,_   
_Come back and take you home,_   
_I could not stop, that you now know, singing,_

_Come out upon my seas,_   
_Cursed missed opportunities, am I,_   
_A part of the cure,_   
_Or am I part of the disease, singing. . ."_

My hands ache to run through short, straight brown hair, my eyes long to look into steady, hazel depths, my heart wants the normal, ordinary life of my town, my work, my family.

Even in the midst of a dying world, stranded on a metal island floating in the middle of a toxic ocean, while all around it raged in yet another World War, it was. . .

It _is_ home.

 _He_ is. . .

_"You are, you are. . ."_

He _was_. . .

_"And nothing else compares. . ."_

For the first time since leaving Skycity 15, my heart is full of Frank.

No, that's not true. . .

My heart was _never_ full after he died. No matter how much I mourned, no matter how long I waited, I was still an exoskeleton, scoured empty by the same nuclear blast that had dissolved him into atoms.

Now, for the _first time since he died_ , I am full, replete. . . _satisfied_. The memories are sad, but I am not. He is so near to me at this moment, somehow, so real, so true, so sweet and kind and good. . .

_"You are, you are,_   
_Home, home, where I wanted to go. . ."_

I open my hand, and look at the lines on my palm. The indirect light from the stage picks out every tiny crisscrossing ridge, every shape and angle, wrinkle and branch. . .

Two husbands, and maybe three. . .

With a gentle, sighing drop, Frank falls into the warm, enclosing aether of time, and grief slips through my fingers. . .

_"Home, home, where I wanted to go,_   
_You are, you are. . ."_

The music slowly fades into the responding applause, as simply and as naturally as a leaf-stem joins a twig.

Very, very gradually, I come back to myself.

When I'm aware of my surroundings again, Tory and his dance partner are sitting next to me, telling some sort of funny story to Leo, who is sitting across from them.

Gwyllyn is in the middle of a much different song, more thudding and electric -

_". . .Thank God the week is done,_   
_I feel like a zombie goin' back to life,_   
_Back, back to life._

_Hands up, and suddenly,_   
_We all got our hands up,_   
_No control of my body,_   
_Ain't I seen you before?_   
_I think I remember those_   
_Eyes, eyes, eyes,_   
_Eyes, eyes, eyes. . ."_

I don't much like this one, though I'm unsure why. Perhaps I would like it if I were fifteen years younger, but for whatever reason, this particular music doesn't do much for me.

I smile at Tory's dance partner, searching for something to say.

"So. . . was this your request?"

Oh, that was _brilliant_ , Beauchamp. Maybe you should ask him about his dental hygiene next. . .

"Och, nae," he waves his hands and makes a bit of a grimace, "This is'nae sae much my style."

"Oh thank heaven," I slouch in real relief that I try to pass off as a joke, "I thought I was the only one!"

"Nae, ye'er no'," he looks at me slightly dubiously for a second, then shrugs and says, conspiratorially, "T'was mos' like one o' the Campbell's moved up heer from down Glesgae way - no' a born Highlander."

"Hm, _that's_ who probably requested it, huh?" I reply, grinning, "Just you watch, it'll be Murtagh or someone, just to spite us both."

"Agch! Haud yer wheesht! Et bettar no' be!" He bellows a great, rolling laugh, and elbows me companionably in the forearm.

"Jam!" calls Tory, "Share the bounty?" When Jamie turns, Tory gestures at the bottles, and Jamie nods, quickly pouring four shot glasses full of the strawberry vodka. One he hands to Gil, one he keeps, and two he slides over to me.

"Would ye give these tae Ollie?" he asks, casually.

"Ollie?" With Tory's voice still in my ears, it takes me a second to register the name Jamie said. I don't know that name. . . but then it's clear who he means, "Oh, right!"

I hand the drinks off with a smile.

But when I turn back, there is a completely inexplicable expression on Jamie's face.

"Oliver!" says, Jamie, sharply.

The man sitting next to me looks up, "Aye?"

Jamie gives him several prompting looks, coupled with glances at me.

Ollie only looks baffled - but not half as baffled as I feel.

Finally Jamie's lip twists, and he takes his shot of vodka with a grimace I'm certain has nothing to do with the alcohol. Then, suddenly, he is standing, bowing to me with his hand outstretched,

"Will ye doo me the honour of dancin' wi' me, Mrs. Beauchamp?"

Wait. . . what?

". . . now? It's the middle of a s-"

"Aye. Now," he says, his eyes steel-grey in the low light, their expression veiled, but sharp and bright nevertheless.

I suddenly realize I've never seen Jamie angry yet.

This may very well be it.

But I haven't the slightest idea _why_. . .

I put my hand in his, and he all but drags me to the dance floor, holding my fingers with the sort of cold, relentless grip I never expected he would use on me.

_"Yeah, baby tonight, the D-J got us fallin' in love again. . ."_

"Jamie?" I whisper urgently, "What. . . ?"

He silences me with a look, then wraps his other arm around me without letting go of my hand. He doesn't lead us into any sort of dance, only stands there, holding me, rocking us back and forth a little, red fury boiling in his eyes, and icy disgust bleeding onto me from everywhere we touch.

" _Jamie_!" I hiss, "What the _hell_ -

"I dinnae ken what it's like in _Oxford_ ," he bursts out with a vicious whisper, "Bu' in the Highlands, a woman doesnae speak tae some'un shee's no' been introduced tae - _particularly_ no' a man - an' _especially_ no' all friendly an' laughin' like ye were wi' Ollie - ye ken?"

_"So dance, dance, like it's the last, last night of your life, life,_   
_Gonna get you right. . ."_

I'm gaping at him, completely unable to speak for several excruciatingly long heartbeats. Then, my voice catches up with me, and my own anger flares, hot and growling.

"Says the man who didn't introduce himself to me until he was lying down in a horse trailer, _demanding I lie down next to him_ , and _**I**_ _insisted on knowing his name first_! _I_ insisted, Jamie! You didn't offer!" I hiss the words at him, going completely still in his grasp.

"Tha' was an _emergency_ , an' well ye ken it!"

I snap back at him, "Eating tea together that day wasn't! And sitting near each other in the van that evening wasn't either!"

"An' d'ye think I didnae regret neglecting my duty both o' those times? Tha' I _still_ regret no doin' it? Why d'ye think I told ye my real name when ye asked? By then, I _owed_ it tae ye!"

I blink, heart racing. What is he _saying_?

"O-owed?"

"Aye!"

"Well, if I'm owed an introduction, then _why didn't you just introduce me to Ollie_?"

He growls in the back of his throat, and his grip tightens on me, like he's desperately trying not to hit something. Or some _one_.

"Because I've _already_ promised ye honour, an' if Oliver Mackenzie cannae do ye the simple courtesy of introducing himself tae ye, then he doesnae deserve yer _presence_ , let alone yer smiles and laughter!"

My eyes frantically rove all over his face. What. . . ? Is he. . . ? Have I misread him again?

"Then. . . then _why_ aren't you angry at _him_?"

"I _am_ angry at him," he sighs, harshly, "But it's ye I _care about_."

My anger dies, and I melt against him in relief. I _have_ misread him.

No, not entirely. He's also not communicating as well as he ought to be. . .

"Well then, next time you want to show me you care, try _not_ taking your frustrations with someone else out on _me_ , okay?" I nod at where his hand is still gripping mine, "My fingers are going numb, Jamie."

He stares at our hands for a second before relaxing his hold, "A-aye. . . sorry. . ."

While we've been talking, the previous song finished, and another is underway. The dance floor didn't clear between songs, so our presence for both has not drawn any notice. He shifts into a dance posture, holding me close to him again, this time with a cradling pressure against my upper back.

_"I saw your eyes,_   
_And they touched my mind,_   
_Though it took a while,_   
_I was falling in love. . ."_

We find our rhythm again, not as quickly as last time, but more smoothly."You know Jamie, you ought to have phrased yourself better, _really_ you ought. I mean, 'A woman doesn't talk to man she hasn't been introduced to' makes it sound like you're angry with _me_."

His cheeks go a bit red - though if it is from embarrassment or residual fury, I don't know - "For a moment, I _was_ , at that. Tae see ye doin' all just as ye should, makin' all the motions of friendship, and he treating them as his due. . . an' then realizing he was doin' so wi'out even the barest gesture of respect for ye. . . Ye'er _above_ that, Claire."

_"I was falling in love. . ."_

I shake my head, "Above it? Above _what_ , my lad? I'm just a woman on a date with my boyfriend, and he's only a man at the same party we're at. We're all here to relax, have a drink, and good time - to get away from the world for a little while. Probably he just forgot."

His lips twist somewhat petulantly, "Weel, tha' is'no an excuse."

"Oh, no? And what about your reaction? Making me think you were furious _at me_? Am I above _that_ , too?"

"I _did_ warn ye I had the de'il's oon temper. . ."

"And I suppose you think that _is_ an excuse?"

He goes quiet for several long seconds.

_"Falling in love. . ."_

Finally, he smiles, slightly shamefaced, "Nae, but I did _also_ say I didnae always think wi' my head. . ."

I snort lightly, "Well, I _could_ make quite a court case out of that, but I won't." The music fades out, and we all stop dancing to applaud, "Let's just say you owe me a drink, and leave it at that, okay?"

"A generous offer, if ever I heard one, mo Sorcha," he says, laying an arm lightly across my shoulders as we leave the dance floor, "Would ye like to try a cider float?"

"I've. . . never heard of such a thing."

"Tha's no surprise. As far as I ken, Letitia invented it. It's made from Leoch's homemade hard pear-cider, mulled wi' spices, then chilled. Then she put two frozen pear slices in it, an' a scoop of vanilla ice cream. We'er famous for them now. It's been one of the mos' popular orders in the Cranesmuir pubs for almost a decade."

"It sounds amazing."

"Right. I'll get us a pair of 'em."

He leaves me near where Colum and his people sat for the first set, and goes to get our drinks.

I lean up against one of the columns holding up the balcony. I giggle a bit to myself. Now, _there_ is a pun. Colum - column.

 _Stunningly_ brilliant, Beauchamp!

The momentary disagreement with Jamie briefly forced me to sharpen my wits, but I might as well admit it - after all the whisky and vodka, coupled with much more sugar than I'm used to, and who knows what was in the daiquiri, I'm right on the edge of being quite pleasantly tipsy. I'm nowhere near drunk yet, but after this cider float, it might be time to switch to water for a while. . .

"Ta the smartarse who tride ta request 'Jump Around'. . ." Gwyllyn takes a deliberately extended pause, and smirks as most of the room boos and hisses, ". . . anyway, heer's 'Wonderwall'."

Everyone in the Great Hall laughs. I don't get what's funny, but by now it's easy to laugh along with them.

A hand appears in front of me, palm up, "May I have the honour of this dance, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Dougal, bowing formally.

All at once, I am ice-cold sober. There's no time to look around for Jamie or any other support. My opponent has timed his approach well - this is him, versus me, just like we agreed. I pull myself upright, and look him directly in the eyes.

There is the usual calculating ambition in his expression, and more than a little arrogance, but I can detect no overt hatred or violent intent.

Very well then. . .

With a delicate, cautious gesture that I hope still manages to convey some grace and nobility, I put my hand in his.

"Whatever honours may or may not be mine to bestow, Mr. Mackenzie, I would have guessed that _you_ , of all people, had no interest in them."

He smiles tightly, "And ye would have guessed correctly, Mrs. Beauchamp."

I raise one eyebrow, silently questioning his motives.

He straightens to his full height, and places one hand formally on my waist. It is a detached touch, not in the least intrusive, "I have found there are few places in the world nearly so private as an active dance floor, Mrs. Beauchamp."

The other couples are ranged around us, and a moment later, the music starts.

_"Today, is gonna be the day_   
_That they're gonna throw it back to you. . ."_

Privacy? Huh. I haven't thought about it that way before, but perhaps he's right. Haven't I discovered something similar myself tonight, several times already? But the presence of so many others in the same room does put quite a hamper on what you can do, and how loud you can speak. . .

Or how much support you can muster.

There isn't just privacy on the dance floor, there can be isolation. Sudden, disorienting isolation. . .

And then I know. _This_ is what he's been planning. Maybe not this exact thing specifically, but something like it, is what he's been aiming for all along. To get me in public, to defeat me in front of everyone, to tear down all of what I've spent the last two weeks building. For a moment, my heart gives a frantic flutter, like a faulty Safnet screen, overwhelmed with stress.

_"By now, you should've somehow_   
_Realized what you gotta do."_

And then, I see them. Jamie and Murtagh, each positioned at a corner of the dance floor, in easy reach of my glance if ever I should need them.

That is enough to calm my nerves.

It would even be reassuring, if there wasn't the entire length of the dance floor open between them. Room enough for Dougal to slip though the crowd with me, get me in private, and then who knows what. . .

And then I see Gil. And Harry. And Leo, Arnold, Tory, Ollie, Edan, Alain, Peter, Gerald and Willie, all lined up along the long edge of the dance floor, each one with their arms crossed, and a decidedly non-festive look on their faces. I have no idea what any of them plan to _do_ if I ever make eye contact with them, but they are there. Surrounding me. Supporting me.

 _Me_. Not Dougal.

It is, perhaps, the smallest and most unremarkable handful of allies, but to me, it is as good as having an army at my back.

My Central blood rises in my veins, and I look Dougal defiantly in the face, "Well, _privacy_ achieved, Mr. Mackenzie."

But not isolation. Nor disorientation. Thanks be to god, Jamie and Murtagh. I don't know what they told the boys, but thanks be to them, too.

_"I don't believe that anybody,_   
_Feels the way I do, about you now. . ."_

Dougal glances around, instantly noticing my men. He half smiles, almost generously, even as his nostrils flare in frustration, "I see ye've been. . . fortifying your position."

"Yes. And laying in supplies."

"Oh? Are ye expecting a siege?"

I raise my eyebrows. He is the one insisting on a war. And now, he's going to get one.

"I am expecting a prolonged offensive. Whether or not it will include a siege is neither here nor there when it comes to needing supplies."

_"Backbeat, the word was on the street,_   
_That the fire in your heart is out._   
_I'm sure you've heard it all before,_   
_But you never really had a doubt."_

He tries to lead me into a more complicated set of steps, using everything he has to try and get me off-kilter again, but it is too late. I refuse his lead-tells four times before he relents, and falls back into the simple rhythm we've already established.

"Ah yes, quite right," he nods, eyes narrowing slightly at being so neatly thwarted twice in the space of seconds, "But there are ways of avoiding offensives altogether, ye ken."

Avoiding them? That's quite a change of gears. So far, everything about this dance has been confrontation. Is he calling for a truce now? Why?

"I am aware of that."

"Aye. But are ye amenable to it?"

"Amenable to what? Be clear, Dougal," I smile so sweetly at him it's obviously a sneer, "You don't need politician's double-talk with _me_ , after all."

His hand tightens on my back, almost infinitesimally. I would think it an unconscious twitch, if not for the dangerous look in his eyes, "Would ye care tae discuss a possible prisoner exchange?"

A parley then. Not a truce.

I don't know whether to be encouraged or disappointed. We don't have much grounds for parley yet. At this stage, we don't have _any_ prisoners. Hardly any battle prizes at all, really. . .

_"I don't believe that anybody,_   
_Feels the way I do, about you now."_

"Prisoner exchange? I was unaware our opening skirmish went so far as to provide hostages."

"Were ye indeed? Odd, considering they were your main bargaining point last time."

"What? No they weren't."

The only thing I have that might, possibly, at a stretch, be considered a hostage, is my knowledge of Hamish's parentage. And Dougal brought that up himself last time, not me. I hardly wormed it out of him, so there's no possible way the knowledge can be considered a legitimate battle prize.

And besides, why on earth would he _bargain_ with me for _his son_?

"Oh indeed? Then what am I tae make of yer. . . what shall I call them? Brass. . . baws? Oor should I say, cubes?"

The spy cameras. He's opening hostage negotiations for the spy cameras? Inanimate objects are not, and cannot, be hostages. Such things are spoils of war, and may be exchanged for other spoils, but not for prisoners. Of course, items with intrinsic value may be traded for hostages, but that is a ransom, not direct prisoner exchange.

What the bloody hell is he on about?

_"And all the roads we have to walk are winding._   
_And all the lights that lead us there are blinding. . ."_

"Those are not prisoners, Dougal, you know that as well as I do."

"But they _are_ all ye have tae set against _my_ prisoner."

" _Your pris_. . . wait, you're equating the value of intrinsically worthless inanimate _objects_ with. . . _people_?"

 _With. . . his son_?

I'm breathless with the sheer, disgusting, unadulterated gall. I might as well have asked him to trade Hamish for a new info-screen. . .

"No' people. _Person_. You have. . . the brass. I have the. . . copper." He looks over the crowd surrounding the dance floor, his gaze settling on. . . _Jamie_.

Not Hamish. Jamie. A complete bystander in my war with Dougal. Well, not so much any more, but he certainly was the last time Dougal and I had a battle.

And he's still trying to treat Jamie like a battle prize.

I don't think I've ever been angrier than I am at this moment. For a second I can do nothing but tremble with the force of it.

_"There are many things that I,_   
_Would like to say to you, but I don't know how."_

I have to admit, I didn't think he'd stoop this low. I was driven to blackmail, as a last resort to try and find some kind of peace and security here. He is _choosing_ it, as an opening tactic in what is clearly a complete battle plan. Cold-bloodedly, he has chosen purposeful, deliberate, unnecessary dishonour.

Whatever long lines of Humanity have gone into making me, and whatever heritage I can claim from them, no matter how noble, no matter how base, it is deeply, intensely offended. I was promised noble warfare, and he has offered me _this_? I clench my jaw so tight I'm afraid I might break teeth. The fool. The cowardly, self-entitled, incompetent. . . asshat. He has no idea what he's doing, not a clue who he's dealing with, and not the least care for the inevitable fallout of his suggestion. . .

I could cheerfully strangle the man, right here, now, in full view of everyone. With my bare hands.

But that would be ten-thousand steps beyond counterproductive. . .

" _James Fraser_ is neither yours to give nor mine to take, Dougal Mackenzie," I hiss, deliberately using Jamie's real name, "And you ought to be _ashamed_ you ever gave a single thought to it."

He raises an eyebrow, still secure in his stated position, unaware that I've already got him in a corner. . . "Is tha' soo? Weel, a'least consider it before ye dismiss the idea. Ye ken I can make his life a bitter, bitter hell-"

"I _know_ that, you _idiot_!" I interrupt with a vicious snap, "But _while_ I'm thinking about you committing _war crimes_ , why don't you pull your head _out_ of your small intestine for a minute and _consider_ exactly what your stupid suggestion _just gave me permission to do_. Alright? I'll even explain it to you - and I'll speak slowly, so _do_ try to keep up."

He blinks, shocked into silence.

Normally I don't venture into personal insult territory like this. No matter how bad things got with Jamie's friends, I'd been very careful to decry their actions, but never their persons. I never called Gil or Harry stupid - not to their face, anyway.

I take hold of my emotions, and forcefully attempt to rein myself in.

Dougal has no idea how close I am to literally tearing his face off. . .

_"Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,_   
_And after all. . . you're my wonderwall. . ."_

"First, you confirm to me that you consider me your enemy. Fine, that's mutual. And then you open parley for hostages. Still with me?"

He sneers, and does not reply.

"Well, putting aside the fact that ransom for a _person_ must either be _a person or persons to make equality of rank_ , or, after suitable negotiation, _good coin of the realm_ \- and so demanding what you are in exchange is against the rules anyway - you go on to _identify the ally of mine you have in hold_. Well, not _you_ , exactly, you've just cast yourself as the capturing general. Which you aren't. But I'll go along with pretending you are, because therein lies the point. Now, think for longer than _two seconds_ about what being the capturing general _means_ in a case of privately negotiated ransom you jaw-dropping _moron_."

His mouth works for a while, but he says nothing, and I finally see the wheels start to turn in his head.

_"Today was gonna be the day,_   
_But they'll never throw it back to you._   
_By now you should've somehow_   
_Realized what you're not to do."_

In noble warfare, there are three avenues an opponent may take to release a prisoner taken in battle. Which Jamie absolutely is not, active murder warrant be damned. That warrant wasn't issued by Dougal, and I highly doubt he's forcing Jamie to stay at Leoch, for any reason. He might have something else over him, but I can't think what it could be. . .

And if he did, most likely Dougal would be suggesting the first way to reclaim prisoners - open ransom for a publicly agreed upon price. It's good he didn't suggest this, because it would be beyond stupid at this stage of things, and entirely backwards to the actual situation. If anything, in the open, public view, _I_ am the one holding Jamie, and all Dougal has is his grandiose posturing. Dougal can no more _give me_ Jamie than I could give Dougal Letitia.

And as for his making Jamie's life hell. . . I wasn't joking him about that being a war crime. I'd have so much over him if he did that, I highly doubt he meant it seriously.

The second way to do this, now that battle prizes have been identified in parley, would be for me to lead an assault to free any hostages Dougal might have taken. Open, frontal attack, or secret infiltration, both are allowed by the rules. I may yet do either, or both, now. If he has anything over Jamie - which he may - opening negotiations like this means Dougal has given me permission to go looking for whatever it is. And if I find it, I am allowed to do _all in my power_ to free my ally from it. The rules of battle apply, but that's all.

He might have considered this aspect of things, but if so, he shows all the signs of still having no idea who he's dealing with. Why confront me with it in the middle of a concert, while I'm surrounded by new allies? Does he think he's going to intimidate me somehow? If I wasn't intimidated before, I'm certainly not going to be now. How on earth is he more willing to confront me when I have backup, than he was when I was all by myself, and on crutches?

_"I don't believe that anybody,_   
_Feels the way I do, about you now. . ."_

And then, there's the third way. Private ransom, for a personally negotiated price. This is what he is suggesting - that I give him back the spy cameras, and in return he leaves me and Jamie alone. But quite beyond the fact that what he's demanding is manifestly against the rules, the problem with his suggestion, and what he has signally failed to take into account, is that even if it were allowed in this instance, this _type_ of negotiation is _not_ made with the capturing general - but _with the person who actually has the hostage in hold_.

And, in this case, that's not Dougal.

That's Colum.

Colum owns Leoch. Colum controls Leoch. If anyone is being held hostage here, he's the one to make a deal with. Even if I played by _Dougal's_ rules in this, I would have to go to the Laird to negotiate exchanging the cameras for Jamie.

In effect, Dougal has just given me permission to walk right up to his brother and tell him _everything_. About the spy cameras in my bedroom, the microphones in my clothes, Dougal's attempts to isolate me - which include him disobeying a direct order from Colum - everything. I'd even be within my rights to tell Colum about Hamish now, since Dougal first brought the boy up during our initial confrontation, and if I go to Colum in the context of a hostage negotiation, that means I have blanket permission to discuss the terms of _all_ previous related bargains.

An incredibly selfish, thickheaded, and downright evil suggestion on Dougal's part. Pure blackmail, only barely cloaked in a token wisp or two of noble warfare. Pure, clumsy blackmail. I cannot believe he thought of it, and I am aghast he actually thought it might work. A staggering miscalculation.

I can tell when he realizes it, too. His steps falter for a second, and he stops leading our dance.

_"And all the roads that lead you there are winding._   
_And all the lights that light the way are blinding."_

In order to keep either of us from falling over, I take over directing our steps. I do so carefully, allowing it to appear like he is still leading, but very firmly taking control of our dance nevertheless.

The double meaning of this is not lost on me.

I sigh. I thought - I really _thought_ he was better than this. . .

"I could destroy you, right here, right _now_ , Dougal Mackenzie," I say, through clenched teeth, "And ask yourself - do you think _I don't have the guts to actually do it_? Do you? You really _ought_ to have asked yourself that beforehand, but since that ship has sailed, go ahead and ask yourself this too - are you willing to live with the fact that I have this power, _because you handed it to me_?" I lean forward and whisper, "Are you _comfortable_ knowing I could annihilate you, because of _your own misjudgement_?"

I don't have to explain any more. He knows.

By the furious, stunned look in his eyes, bloody hell, does he know. . .

_"There are many things that I,_   
_Would like to say to you but I don't know how. . ."_

Maybe. _Maybe_ I've gotten through.

Maybe.

"It's incredibly fortunate for you, then, that your destruction is not my goal. Not now, nor has it ever been."

"Oh?" he grinds out, flatly, "Sae what _is_ ye'er goal then?"

He actually doesn't know. _He_ is the one who insisted on going to war with me, and he doesn't know that all I've ever wanted from him is to be his ally.

_"I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,_   
_And after all, you're my wonderwall. . ."_

For the first time tonight, I find it in my heart to feel a tiny bit of pity for him.

"You'll know," I say, as kindly as possible, "When I've succeeded."

When. Not if.

It's more imperative now than ever. Somehow or other, Dougal Mackenzie _must_ become my ally. He's too much of a danger to himself and others for me to dismiss.

If I'm going to have any hope of improving the future, this man _must_ be on my side. He could undo all of my efforts, otherwise.

_"I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,_   
_And after all, you're my wonderwall. . ."_

Since I am leading, I direct us to the corner near where Jamie is standing.

Then, slowly, deliberately, making sure Dougal sees what I'm doing, I make eye contact with Jamie.

Please, my lad, _please_ give him a graceful way out. . .

_"And after all. . . you're my wonderwall!"_

The music fades slowly, and as the rest of the dancers begin to applaud, Jamie bows to us, very formally,

"I thank ye, Dougal, fer steppin' in. I'm afraid I havenae been quite as vigilant in my attendance tae Mrs. Beauchamp as I ought tae have been taenight." He extends a hand to me, and I take it, gratefully.

Excellent way to phrase it, my lad. . .

A strange look crosses Dougal's face, "Aye, ye'ev been lax, laddie. 'Tis fortunate fer ye indeed tha' th'young lady is sae well accomplished, she has bu' littel need fer escortin'." He bows to us both, then turns on his heel, and retreats across the room towards the drinks tables.

I exhale in relief, and slump against Jamie's side a little. He puts a steadying arm around me.

"Soo. . . did ye reach forgiveness this time?"

"No."

"Ah."

I make my best approximation of a Scottish noise, somewhere between a growl and a grunt, "Take me back to our table, Jamie. I need to be around people of kindness and intelligence."

He blinks, and looks at me, slightly shocked. "Weel now. That certainly says it all. . ."

I shake my head, "It doesn't. Not nearly. But I can't tell you any more right now, I'm sorry."

"Dinnae fash. Jus' so long as ye'er alright?"

"I will be. When I've calmed down a bit."

"Still want that drink?"

"I think I _need_ it. . ."

We're slow walking back to the table, so when we get there, the boys have already reassembled, and are joking and crowing over their little adventure.

I, am not so sure. . .

"It isn't exactly something to laugh at, my lads. . ."

"Wha' isnae?" says Geillis, returning with a bowl of sliced fruit and a small plateful of cookies, "Ye _awl_ laving me aloon lik' tha'?"

"Aye," cuts in Murtagh, "T'was shameful, and th'lot o' us ought tae apologize tae ye." He inclines his head respectfully, and salutes her.

The rest of the men take this very obvious hint, and settle down dramatically.

It appears I'm not the only one at the table who doesn't quite trust Geillis. . .

She shrugs, and gives a flattered smile, "Aw, Mr. Fitzgibbons, ye'er goin' tae mek me blush!"

"Small chance of _tha'_ , Mrs. Duncan!" says Jamie, teasingly.

Everyone laughs, and the tension is broken.

Gwyllyn has begun a new song, and the dance floor is quite full for this one.

_"Found my heart and broke it here,_   
_Made friends and lost them through the years. . ."_

I take a sip of my cider. It's not overwhelmingly spiced, and the ice cream is a perfect accompaniment. It appears that, in this matter at least, Letitia has excellent taste.

"Sae how is tha' wee crop regulator workin' fer ye, pet?" Geillis asks me.

_"I'm on my way,_   
_Driving at ninety down those country lanes. . ."_

I shrug a little, "Not bad, considering. I'm new to this machine specifically, and it's the middle of November, so naturally, there have been hiccups."

"Och, natcharally."

_"And I miss the way you make me feel, and it's real,_   
_We watched the sun set, over the castle on the hill."_

Over Geillis's shoulder, I see Dougal striding around the stage, getting the drummer's attention, and giving him some kind of instructions.

That's a bit odd. The band has had completely free rein all night. They've even been taking the requests in whatever order they want.

_". . . I still remember,_   
_These old country lanes,_   
_When we did not know the answers. . ."_

This music is easy to like, and the cider is going down smoothly. I've managed to contain my adrenaline reaction to just a slightly upset stomach, and the sweet, cool drink is doing me no end of good. My queasiness has only just subsided when I see Dougal again, only this time, making straight for our table.

_". . . Over the castle on the hill."_

Gwyllyn finishes the song, but Dougal doesn't join in on the applause. His gaze is steady and his step is lance-straight, right for us.

If he's coming to ask me to dance again, I'm going to refuse. Under the table, I take hold of Jamie's hand, trying to communicate this through only the power of touch.

Please, _please_ guard me, my lad. . .

He squeezes my fingers reassuringly, and I know he understands.

But then I realize - I have no idea what Dougal is about to do. I've already seen him do something I completely did not expect tonight, so who knows where his mind is at now?

Hell, he's perfectly capable of asking _Murtagh_ to dance, just to see what the reaction will be.

Then, he's here. I grip Jamie's hand, but Dougal doesn't give a single glance at me. Instead, he bows, and offers his hand. . .

To Geillis.

She gives us all a delighted grin, and jumps up to join him.

Huh. Now that, I did not see coming.

I look at Murtagh. He gives me a small wave and shake of the head - clearly, whatever is going on, now is not the time for explanations.

As soon as they reach the dance floor, Gwyllyn gestures to the drummer, and they start the music with a rolling bang.

_"Shot through the heart!_   
_And you're to blame!_   
_Darlin', you give love, a bad name."_

Most of the men around our table collapse into mocking laughter.

_"An angel's smile is what you sell,_   
_You promise me heaven, then put me through hell._   
_Chains of love got a hold on me,_   
_When passion's a prison, you can't break free!"_

Geillis dives into a hip-swinging, foot-stomping dance, but at the very first note, Dougal froze in place, and he hasn't moved since. I've learned his mannerisms a bit by now, and I can tell, even from here, that he is shocked, frustrated, and something else I can't quite place. . .

I'm sure it isn't fury, but by the set of his shoulders, it isn't too far removed from that. . .

_"Oh, you're a loaded gun, yeah._   
_Oh, there's nowhere to run!_   
_No one can save me,_   
_The damage is done!"_

Except for Jamie and Murtagh, all the men around me are rolling with laughter at a mixture of Dougal's discomfort, Geillis's exuberance, and their own recent triumph.

I just shake my head.

"Aye, the Sassenach has the rights of it, lads," says Murtagh, so solemnly that everyone stops laughing and looks up, "She kens tha' music was a mistake - oor something Dougal didnae expect, annyway. An ye' all ken tha' ye dinnae surprise a stallion in his loose box, do ye no'? Weel, it holds true, lads. It holds true."

I nod, and make eye contact with a few of them in turn, "All I know for certain is - in battle, you always respect your enemy. Or it's your own head you risk, not theirs."

"Dougal isnae our _enemy_ , lassie," says Harry, slightly shocked.

"Oh no? Well, he was a few minutes ago. Or do you seriously think he's just going to brush that off as the schoolboy antics of his brother's farming staff?"

They all squirm a bit.

Jamie pounds his fist on the table, "Did I no' _tell_ th'lot of ye? I said dinnae go down there wi' me unless ye _mean_ it. Unless ye can _stick by_ it. Ye ken I did."

"Now Jam," says Gil, "Ye ken there wasnae a lot o' time tae explain-"

"Doo I havetae explain _honour_ tae ye? Trust? Respect? Agch!" He pounds the table again, and then presses his knuckles to his mouth, as though trying to prevent himself from saying whatever he wants to say next.

_"I play my part, and you play your game,_   
_You give love a bad name!"_

"Jamie's right, lads. Now the choice has been made. An' t'wil no' be _un_ made, no' while _I_ run the stables, ye ken?" Murtagh looks sternly around the table, "Ye'ev picked yer side o' the haystack. Now ye sleep in et."

I smile at his metaphor, "Not that there's any real danger to any of you, of course."

"Oh there isnae?" says Edan, "How if he fires th'lot of us?"

"He can't do that without having to explain why - to Colum. And Colum was the one who hired me, so how Dougal feels about it makes no matter."

Of course, I can't tell them about the bigger issues at play here - all they can know is that Dougal doesn't like me.

"And besides that, if you stick together, he can't stand against you all - as you just proved not fifteen minutes ago," I shake my head again, "No, if there are to be reprisals, he'll visit them on me, and maybe Jamie, not on the lot of you. If you _want_ to stand with us, though, we'd welcome that."

_"Shot through the heart,_   
_And you're to blame,_   
_You give love a bad name!_   
_I play my part, and you play your game,_   
_You give love a bad name. . ."_

Dougal has relented slightly, stomping stiffly around the dance floor, letting Geillis writhe and twirl all around him. He doesn't look half as ridiculous as he did a minute ago.

No one starts laughing again.

"Aye lassie," says Gil, finally, "I'm wi' Jam, an' if tha' means ye too, I'm all fer it."

Slowly, one by one, everyone else around the table nods.

It isn't anywhere close to how I _wanted_ to become one of them, but as things stand, I'll take it, and be thankful for it.

"Weel, now that tha's settled, pour the vodka, laddie!" says Murtagh, almost cheerfully.

Jamie puts down his cider, and pours an impressive number of shots from both vodka bottles, nearly filling the tray he brought.

Gwyllyn somehow smoothly transitions from the sharp, loud drums of one song, into the sweet, light rhythm of another.

_"Fly me to the moon,_   
_Let me play among the stars. . ."_

On the dance floor, Geillis stops her wild dancing, and offers a placating hand to Dougal. After a slight hesitation, he takes it, and he swings her into the dignified, respectable dance I'm sure he initially intended on.

_"Let me see what spring is like,_   
_On, a-Jupiter and Mars._

_In other words, hold my hand,_   
_In other words, baby, kiss me. . ."_

The tray of shots makes the rounds, and I grab another of the coconut flavoured ones. After the impressive ride my stomach has taken in the past half hour, I think I deserve it. . .

_"Fill my heart with song,_   
_And let me sing for ever more._   
_You are all I long for,_   
_All I worship and adore."_

Under the table, I spread my hand out on the hand Jamie has resting on his knee. Tonight was just supposed to be a date. A fun thing for us to do together. How has it turned into. . . whatever this is?

_"In other words, please be true,_   
_In other words, I love you."_

I comb my fingers through his, and gently scratch the skin of his knee between his knuckles. The fine down of hairs on the back of his hand tickle my palm. He sits up straighter, and again nudges his leg over a bit, until it is pressed against mine.

_"Fill my heart with song,_   
_Let me sing for ever more,_   
_You are all I long for,_   
_All I worship and adore."_

I lean my head on Jamie's shoulder, lost once more in Gwyllyn's enchanting voice.

_"In other words, please be true!_

_In other words,_   
_Oh, in other words,_   
_I_   
_Love_   
_You."_

Jamie doesn't applaud - so as not to jostle me, I assume, dreamily, but the rest of the table does. A minute later, Geillis is back, grabbing another shot of vodka, and taking a large bite out of one of her cookies.

"Och, puir Gwyllyn! He accidentally played my request befoor Dougal's! He'el nevar live et doon, puir lamb!"

"Do you mean Gwyllyn or Dougal?" I ask, not _quite_ without smirking.

She roars a laugh, then sighs, delightedly, "Booth, I suppose! But et's Gwyllyn I feel sorrae fer."

"Ye dinnae feel any pity fer Dougal, then?" asks Jamie, wryly.

"Nae, he deserved et, t'auld coot. He asked _me_ , aftar all. He kent wha' he was gettin' inta." She grins wolfishly, and swallows her shot, "An' now I'm afraid I mus' luv ye an' leave ye, my pets. . ."

"Ye arenae drivin' back tae Cranesmuir?" says Murtagh, indicating her shot glass with genuine concern.

"Nae, Mrs. Fitz found me a room in the guest wing - I ha' an appointment earlay taemorrow - cannae be late - an' sae I mus' be off now," she stands and waves, cheerily, "'Night all!"

A chorus of "'Night" and "G'night" follow her away from our table, and out of the Great Hall.

"'N our next request uz 'Circles'," says Gwyllyn, his voice eerily unaffected by how long he's been singing, and what a variety of music he's had to perform.

I wonder how much longer the concert will go on. . .

I look up at Jamie, "Is this your request?"

"Nae," he says, casually, "Ye'll ken when ye hear it, most certainly."

"Hmph." I close my eyes, and let myself get caught up in the music.

_"We couldn't turn around,_   
_'Til we were upside down. . ."_

And then, I must fall asleep for a minute or two, because when I next open my eyes, the song is winding down, and I have no memory of time passing.

_"I dare you to do. . . something. . ."_

I inhale deeply, and sit up straight, even though I mourn the loss of Jamie's warm shoulder under my cheek. I feel so comfortable with him, so like _myself_.

Which is an odd thing to admit to feeling, of course, but I have felt so _un_ like myself so often recently. Anyone who makes me feel normal as often as Jamie does is an enormous blessing, without a doubt. Even when I thought he was angry at me, I felt like I could be angry in return, and he wouldn't hold that against me. I only rarely had that before Frank, and I certainly haven't had it since. I can hear his voice now, calm and sympathetic, telling me to feel my feelings, telling me it's okay not to understand them, telling me he'll be there to listen when I need him. . .

Except he isn't anymore, and never will be again. . .

_"Run away, but we're running in circles,_   
_Run away, run away, run away. . ."_

I lean forward a bit, and put my hand on Jamie's knee again. He gives a low hum of approval, and puts an arm around my waist, pulling me as close as I can get.

"'N now ut's a perennial favaroute - 'Despacito'!" calls Gwyllyn.

There's a triumphant crow from a few tables away. I recognize Rupert's voice in it, and I can't help but smile. I spot both him and Angus making their way to a dance floor I notice they've mostly avoided all night. This song appears to be quite popular with the men at our table too, and almost everyone gets up to dance. Murtagh murmurs that he sees an old friend in the under-balcony section, and he goes to talk to him, leaving me and Jamie alone at our table.

"So, this isn't your request, then?" I say, gripping his knee tightly for a second.

"Nae," he grins slyly, and lets his hand slide lower on my hip than is strictly proper. . . "But I've been meanin' tae ask ye - who did ye dress for taenight?"

Gwyllyn starts singing a rapid, upbeat song in a language I don't know. And judging from how little singing along there is, I'd guess very few others here know it either. But the dance floor is filled with couples energetically dancing to it, regardless. It _is_ admittedly catchy. . .

I just snuggle myself into Jamie's hold a little more, "Myself. Entirely. I realized it was the first time I'd had a chance to do so in. . . well, way too long."

His smile widens, and he squeezes my hip, "Good."

"Oh, that's good in your opinion, is it?"

"Aye, shouldnae it be?"

I smile at him, " _Should_ , but very rarely _is_ , my lad. I thought for _certain_ you'd prefer it if I had dressed for you."

"Mm. Maybe another time I would. But taenight? Our first public date?" he leans over and pecks my cheek, "This is perfect."

I hum happily, but I can't let him leave it there, "But. . . why?"

"Because that way I ken I like ye for ye. No' some fancy fethers oor a deliberate tease," he squeezes me gently again, to illustrate his point, "Ye wore this because it was what ye wanted tae wear?"

"Entirely."

"An' ye'er still the bonniest one in the room. I like what ye'er wearing, because it's _ye_ wearing it. An' I'm glad of that."

My insides melt a little bit, "Why Jamie Fraser, you say the sweetest things."

"Mm. Only when they're true. . ." he nuzzles lightly into the hair above my ear, sending tingles all down my side.

My heart jumps, and with a gasp, I push myself a few centimeters away from him, and flip his hand off my hip. He just smiles, and pretends to watch the dancing, while giving me teasing, flirty glances every couple of seconds.

You're in public, Beauchamp! Don't go there right now!

"So, what _are_ the words to this song, anyway?" I ask, hoping to change the subject.

"Ye sure ye want tae know?"

I blink, "What? Of course!"

He holds back a laugh, gives me a wry look, and leans over to whisper in my ear.

Twenty seconds later, I'm staring at him, eyes wide, stuck somewhere between shock and horror.

"You. . . you're _kidding me_!"

"Nae, I'm no'. Tha's what the words mean."

I nod at the dance floor, "Do _they_ know that?"

He shrugs, "Some do. None of them care."

"But. . . but. . ."

He grins, leans over, an whispers the meaning of another verse.

My cheeks warm embarrassingly, and I push him away from me, and slap his arm, "You stop that, right _now_ , Fraser!"

He finally gives in to laughter, "Can't stand the heat, my lass?"

I try to give him a stern look. It's difficult when I can't keep a grin off my face, "When it's coming from _you_? Not at all. Not in the least bit."

He shakes his head, growls fondly, and drapes a soothing arm around my shoulders, pulling me close again.

Again I don't know how he does it, but Gwyllyn smoothly transitions from one song into another completely different song. Everyone on the dance floor laughs and claps at the first few bars, and no one decides to leave, instead swinging into the new music they apparently are all familiar with. . .

_"Pressure,_   
_Pushing down on me,_   
_Pressing down on you. . ."_

It's another one I don't know. I sigh, "Are you _ever_ going to tell me when it's your request, Jamie?"

"I _keep_ tellin' ye - ye'll ken." His mouth quirks up, teasingly, "But I will say, _if_ I'd requested Queen, I would've at _least_ have had the decency tae ask fer 'Fat Bottomed Girls'."

I snort, and poke him hard in the ribs, "Have I told you that I hate you, Jamie Fraser?"

He scoops up my hand and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my knuckles, "No' _nearly_ enough. . ."

_"These are the days it never rains but it pours. . ."_

This time, I run my hand slowly down his thigh before resting my fingers on his knee. Delicately, I start to draw patterns on his skin with my nails, scratching ever so slightly, just barely dipping my fingertips underneath the hem of his kilt. . .

He coughs lightly, "Ah, ye ken I'm a True Scotsman, aye?"

"Never doubted it, my lad," I say casually, tracing a fancy design over his kneecap before returning to play with the edge of the MacKenzie tartan.

"D'ye. . ." he coughs again, and his eyes narrow at me, "D'ye ken what that means?"

"Well, I've never heard the saying before. It doesn't mean what it sounds like it means?"

"Nae. It doesnae." Once again he leans over and whispers into my ear.

My fingers freeze, I sit up straight, and I stare at him, with who knows what sort of expression on my face.

"You. . . _this_ time you're kidding me, right?"

"Nae. That's what it means."

"Oh." I take a few seconds to collect myself. If that's true, then. . . "Well, I guess it's _very_ fortunate you're wearing that leather purse thing. . ." I give him a saucy glance, and start tracing patterns on his skin again.

_"Can't we give ourselves one more chance?_   
_Why can't we give love that one more chance?"_

"My sporran? Oh, aye. Many a lad has been thankful for a well placed sporran, tae be sure." He shifts, uncomfortably.

I smirk at him, not letting up, and I carefully time my response to the music -

"What's the matter, Jamie? Can't stand the. . ."

_". . . pressure-"_

He raises his eyebrows, "When it's comin' from ye? No' at _all_. . ."

Finally, he reaches down, and engulfs my hand in his, stopping all motion, right as the song ends.

"Ye relentless wee _tease_ ," he hisses, only just audible through the applause. "Ye'll _pay_ fer that, Claire, I swear by-"

Either the next song title was lost in the applause, or Gwyllyn yet again transitioned without announcing it, but a new strain of music interrupts Jamie.

" _Finally_ ," he sighs, stands up, and offers his hand to me.

I take it, knowing this must be his request at last, but I don't ask him to tell me what song it is, waiting to understand on my own, like he keeps saying I will.

On our way to the dance floor, I take a long look around for Dougal, but I can't see him. Not among the dancers, not in the crowd, not sitting in the under-balcony, nowhere.

I would not have thought a man like that could just disappear, but apparently, he has.

I don't even try to deny my relief.

Gwyllyn has deliberately extended his opening instrumental to give us dancers time to assemble properly, but the moment we all do, he dives deliciously into the lyrics -

_"On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair,_   
_Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air. . ."_

Jamie's eyes meet mine, and all at once, I am lost in their clean-ocean blue, far more than I am even in Gwyllyn's voice. . .

_"Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light._   
_My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,_   
_I had to stop for the night."_

The room falls away, and it's just us two, on a wide and lonesome plain, bathed in a sunset light, orange and gold and purple, accompanied only by the pure, intense sound of Gwyllyn's singing.

_"There she stood in the doorway,_   
_I heard the mission bell._   
_And I was thinking to myself,_   
_This could be heaven or this could be Hell."_

There's been power in the music all night, but nothing at all like this. This. . . I don't even know _what_ it is. I've had dissociative episodes before, even waking dreams. But I've never taken anyone else _with me_. . .

_"Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way,_   
_There were voices down the corridor,_   
_I thought I heard them say. . ."_

The rich golden light swirls around us as Jamie pulls me tighter, and leads me into a more complicated dance than I've ever attempted before.

_"Welcome to the Hotel California._   
_Such a lovely place,_   
_Such a lovely face._   
_Plenty of room at the Hotel California,_   
_Any time of year,_   
_You can find it here."_

The flat, empty plain around us warps and twists into glowing green hills and hollows of land, all lit by the same light as us two, but throwing blue-black shadows of cold across our path.

_"Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends,_   
_She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends._   
_How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat,_   
_Some dance to remember, some dance to forget!"_

All at once we are surrounded by trees, and tables filled with piles of fruit, bread and wine. Birds and moths and other flying creatures criss-cross the blue-velvet sky above us, their wings drawing down the sweeping breeze of early night. There are lanterns among the branches, and the music comes from the ground itself. We dance between the tree trunks, between the bountiful feasts lit with faerie light, and we twist and twirl down a pathway neither of us can see, but both of us know all too well. . .

_"So I called up the Captain,_   
_Please bring me my wine._   
_He said, We haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty-nine._   
_And still those voices are calling from far away,_   
_Wake you up in the middle of the night,_   
_Just to hear them say - "_

A veil of blood drapes between us, metallic and sticky, filthy and cloying. Then suddenly it is washed away as we are engulfed by a roaring, foaming wave that stills magically into a deep, still pond made clear and bright by the golden fire that burns beneath it.

_"Welcome to the Hotel California_   
_Such a lovely place,_   
_Such a lovely face._   
_They livin' it up at the Hotel California,_   
_What a nice surprise,_   
_Bring your alibis. . ."_

We float in the great blue void until a mountain of stones pours into the water, and drinks it up, pushing us towards the sun. The stars gleam as we are thrown into the sky, still clasped in each other's arms, and we fall. . . fall. . . fall. . . landing safe and breathless in a field of scarlet poppies.

_"Mirrors on the ceiling,_   
_The pink champagne on ice,_   
_And she said, We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."_

A circle of rosebushes sprout around us, their blooms white, and blue, and pale lavender-grey, their thorns sharp and fierce, their fruit blood-red and vivid.

_"And in the master's chambers,_   
_They gathered for the feast_   
_They stab it with their steely knives,_   
_But they just can't kill the beast."_

Atop the Spire of Skycity 15 there is a place you can stand, and look down into the pale green ocean. More than once I have thought what it would be like to plummet from the sky, down into the dark depths of the sea.

And so we do, through the poison and death of the water, past the stone and fire the earth's mantle, the pressure and impossible power of the core, and out, and out, through to the other side of the world, until we are floating in the sky once more, on a purple cloud over a green-golden plain, glowing bright in soft sunset light, eyes locked in a look that is more marriage than glance, arms wrapped around each other, a feeling that is so much more than longing leaving its perfume between us.

_"Last thing I remember, I was_   
_Running for the door,_   
_I had to find the passage back to the place I was before._   
_Relax, said the night man,_   
_We are programmed to receive._   
_You can check out any time you like,_   
_But you can never leave!"_

The music pulls me back into myself, and the walls of Leoch reassemble themselves around me. . . around us.

But still, Jamie is all there is, his fate intertwined with mine, just as our fingers are woven together, just as the music winds and dips through the air, binding us so close. . .

The next thing I know, he is pulling us past a door, and closing it behind us. Then I'm being pushed against a wall, and his lips are fused to mine. A light goes on in the room, but I notice nothing except him, his hands, and his mouth.

We might be in a ballroom or a broom closet, I don't care, just so long as he keeps kissing me.

It's like waking up from a nightmare, only to discover you're in heaven. . .

"Ye ken. . . what they say. . . about dancin'. . . aye?" he asks, in between his attempts to devour me.

"No," I gasp, "What do they say?"

"They say it's almost. . ." his words get lost in my mouth for a second, ". . . almost as bad as fightin'. For what it does tae a man. An', I assume, a woman too. . ."

He plants both hands firmly on my backside, drawing us even closer together. Then he drags one hand down my thigh, lifting my leg against his hip, pressing me to him.

It turns out _I_ am the one who is extremely thankful for the sporran.

It's so good, _he_ is so good, but it's so _much_ , too much, too fast. . .

"Please stop," I whisper.

He does. At once.

He sets me back on my feet, and takes a half step back, "Claire. . . I. . . I'm. . ."

I clap a hand over his mouth, "If you _dare_ say you're sorry, Fraser, I swear I'll scream. It was just too much. That's _all_. There's _nothing_ to be sorry for. Okay?"

He nods, wraps his arms around me, and rests his forehead on my shoulder.

"Claire. . ." he heaves a great sigh, "I'm no' usually a man to beg, an' god knows I'm ashamed o' myself for asking ye this, now of all times, but. . ." his arms tighten around me, "Please tell me ye want me."

My jaw drops, and I push him just far enough away so that I can look him in the eye, " _Want_ you? _Jamie_! If that isn't patently obvious by now, I don't know what else I can _possibly_ say. . ."

"But, ye said. . . ye warned me we might nevar. . . and now. . ." he shakes his head, "It's all right if this is all ye want, it's only. . . I. . . I need tae ken that ye. . . I need tae _hear_ it, Claire."

He doesn't look hurt, or thwarted, only sad, and somehow. . . impossibly. . . _lost_.

Oh, no, no, _no_.

I can't bear being the one who has put such a look in his eyes. Especially after that dance. . .

"There is a very great distance between _wanting_ something and being _ready_ for it, you know." I kiss my fingertips, and trace the outline of his jaw, then push back a few of his curls that have escaped the sticky bonds of condition-holder. "You're a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky for me, my lad, surely you know that? Completely unexpected, and thoroughly overwhelming." Softly, I kiss his cheek, "I want you so much, sometimes it terrifies me. I _ache_ with wanting you, Jamie. I'm just. . . not ready yet. I don't know when, or. . . or if. . . I'll ever be ready. But _want_? _You_? How could I possibly _not_?" I sigh, suddenly frustrated, "Oh, my sweet, _sweet_ man, _can't_ you understand?"

The lost look in his eyes slowly transforms into something no less sorrowful, but infinitely more hopeful. He nods, "Aye."

Oh, Jamie. What I wouldn't give to be the woman of your dreams.

If only I could let go. . .

Let go of Claire Beauchamp, let go of Skycity 15, of 2279, and World War IV.

Of Frank. Of Lamb. Of Craigh na Dun.

Of strange dreams, and waking visions, and impossible songs.

Of this feeling that I was sent here to _do_ something. Of this strangely overpowering need I have to _change things_.

If only I wasn't an anachronism. An impossibility. A fluke.

If only I wasn't _me_. . .

"Jamie?"

"Aye?"

"I'm. . ." I swallow back an inexplicable sob, "I'm. . . _obscenely_ sober."

His eyebrows draw together into a fearfully determined line. "Aye."

Without another word, he takes my hand, drags my very willing self back to the bar, and proceeds to get us both thoroughly drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for this chapter - 
> 
> FIRST SET
> 
> Skye Boat Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mj8Z84zLuEw
> 
> Scotland the Brave - (instrumental) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqeYKf8tdsU - (w/lyrics) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzK2PWVQYX0
> 
> Murdo MacKenzie of Torridon, Aspen Bank, Major Manson - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ga7DAGPUlPM
> 
> 3 Jigs - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVhz6hTTIbY
> 
> Wild Mountain Thyme - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKvB3g3HEPQ 
> 
> Lochaber Gathering, Tam Bain's Lum - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUnlV53bMWM
> 
> Pipe-Major John Stuart, John D. Burgess - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0CDYcYhHGPA&t=36s
> 
> City Of Savannah, Showman's Fancy - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LhQRowMcQOc
> 
> Sunshine on Leith - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9V7NYX1TOgs
> 
> The Gael (instrumental) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPzsmWMCMoc
> 
> Flower of Scotland - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vyx1xeZo_tk - (w/lyrics) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPaJhlIIYjM
> 
> Loch Lomund - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXGVFJqSqqg 
> 
> Clean Pease Straw (instrumental) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxS3O72KGCs
> 
> BETWEEN SETS
> 
> The Dragon's Lullaby - (instrumental) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTwBLZghrvI
> 
> Tu-Bardh - (street performance by Clanadonia, the real-life band that has performed music for Outlander, and inspired my creation of The Cuckoos In The Grove) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnSNfxjrwck - (studio version) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2mWMKTzUt8
> 
> The King Of The Highlands - (instrumental) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tzE98pQH08
> 
> SECOND SET
> 
> Boys Are Back In Town - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQo1HIcSVtg
> 
> Throw The 'R' Away - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Tffp64Lu10
> 
> Clocks - (instrumental - VISUAL OF THE HARP GUITAR) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpv3klci1pE - (w/lyrics) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XGjgCjZ6V00
> 
> DJ Got Us Falling in Love - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3VGu7rQNdc
> 
> Space Age Love Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yB-ijsaBryM
> 
> Wonderwall - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sYffFEIAzdE
> 
> Castle On The Hill - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0ibBPhiaG0
> 
> You Give Love A Bad Name - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0CK36W9c00
> 
> Fly Me To The Moon - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4PADehT7xZI
> 
> Circles - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXhTHyIgQ_U
> 
> Despacito - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCdqHPon5Lo
> 
> Under Pressure - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWdLt3Afjrg
> 
> Hotel California - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=811QZGDysx0


	33. Drunk Text

"Ahhhggh! Pu' me down!" I yell, drumming my free hand against Jamie's lower back.

"Sha'nt!"

I kick, and squirm as much as I can - which isn't much. I wail, and swing the bottle I'm holding, bringing it down as hard as I can against his hip - but I have to be careful not to spill it, so it does no good - "You _savage_! You _thug_!"

His grip tightens around my knees, "Och, ath-thug es it? I warned ye, I ded - ah saed ef ye didnae c-com' wi' me, I'd th-throo ye ower m'shoolder an'-"

"You Viking _ki'napper_! Pu' me _down_!" I squirm frantically again, and pound on his hip with the bottle.

"Hol' _shtill_ wooman! A'fore ah _drop_ ye!"

Suddenly, the world is funny, and I can't stop giggling, "You c-couldn _drop_ me if you pu' mee downnn."

"No' 'ntil. . . ah sae soo. . ." He swings around a corner, continuing to carry me wherever it is we're going. . .

"Help help!" I giggle delightedly, "'M bein 'ducted by a drunk Sco'ish _barbarian_!"

Whatever it is I'm laughing at must be contagious, because he starts giggling too, "Yee'r 'peatin' yersel', Sasshenack."

"Ih'm _no_ a s'snack!" I squirm again, descending into helpless laughter, "Ih'm a main course!"

He guffaws at me, and gives me a pat on the thigh, "A'c-coorss ye are. 'S'kuse me."

Finally, he dumps me, sprawling, onto a bench in a hallway I vaguely recognize. With one last squirm I wrench myself into sitting upright - not without some considerable support from the wall, but still. . .

There is a loud rattling sound as Jamie does something to the wall a few meters away. Then he grunts, frustrated, and plops down next to me on the bench. I take a swig from my bottle, grimace, and turn to stare at him.

"Wh-why you pik me up annyway? Wuz havin' fun. . ."

He growls, a bit unsteadily, "Ye wh-wher flirtin' wi' _Angus_. Wheen yee'r doo'n tha', I. . . iken sh'time tae stop aye? Ha-hadtae gi' ye away."

I snort, "I wuz _naw_ flirring - teasin! - s'differn't." I take another long swallow, "S'ides, 'arry tole me if I wanna git rid o'Angus s'all I hav'ta do is p'tend t'be a sheep. 'L turn 'im rite off."

I proceed to make some horrific 'baaah-baaah' sound that to this day I maintain could have turned _anyone_ off, no matter their preferences, gender, or state of arousal.

Jamie shouts with laughter, "A sheep es it? No' a dyin' camel?"

"Shud- _dup_!" I slap his arm with the bottle, "Thas th'sheep noise. Angus dosno lik the sheep noise. Bu' I hav'ta bee shure issno Rupert, 'caus he _does_ lik it. . ." Harry's exact words melt and blur in my memory, and suddenly I am slightly unsure of my accuracy, "Or. . . tha. . . tha mi'be other way 'round. . . _point_ is. . ."

"Ahye?"

His sweet blue eyes meet mine, and I forget what I was going to say, "Point is. . . thi' swiskey _sucks_!" I drink from the bottle again and make a face, "Ugh!"

Jamie sits up, very dignified, "Thaa'. . ." he grabs the bottle from me, "Ess Irn-Bru."

"Don' care if s'Aaron Blue. Stil bad wiskey," I kick the carpeting, petulantly.

"Ess sof' drink, Sasshenack," he shakes his head, emphatically, "Soda pop. No' whisky 'tal."

"Mmmm." I start sliding down the wall towards him. I just need to rest for a bit, and his chest looks mightily comfortable. . . " _Yer_ tall. Reallllly tall."

"Hmmf," he gulps back what's left in the bottle, "Taste s'like _girdars_." Very precisely and carefully, he puts the empty bottle on a nearby end table.

I make it halfway to his chest before he notices me sliding down the wall. He props me up with one hand for a second, ignoring my groan of frustration, before standing up and lowering my head to the bench's tiny padded armrest. He lifts my legs up onto the bench too, and then slowly kneels down and starts to stretch himself out on the flowery hallway carpeting. I'm too transfixed by how warm his hands are on me, and how nice it is to feel like I'm being taken care of to understand what exactly is going on.

"Whaa t'choo doin?"

"Yer wee dooer ess locked, sae wec'n kip 'ere aye?"

"Whaaa?" I squint at him, confused. My head can't quite translate undiluted Scot at the moment.

He very deliberately points at my knee, and then the carpet, "Y-yee c'n slee p'on th'bench. I'll tak th'floor, dinn farsh."

I start giggling again, and fumble with the ribbon knotted into a bow at my side.

"N-nowh-what _yee_ doin'?"

"Key. Stup-stupied dress ha'no pok'ts. Onlee place t'keep it.

"Oh aye?"

"Aye." Blearily, I remove the key I've threaded onto the ribbon, and hand it to him.

"Ri' than."

He takes the key, and slowly stands up, goes over to the door, unlocks it, throws it open, and bows over to me, gesturing through the door, "Yee'r hoom, m'ladie."

I grunt, as elegantly as possible, "T'anks. Bu' cannt gi' up. Sory."

He smiles, strides back over to me, and pushes his arms underneath my body, lifting me into the air. I laugh, and curl against him, feeling like I'm flying.

"Mmm. Yer _s'rong_. S'rong, warm _an'_ tall. . . s'nice."

He nuzzles into my hair, "Yee'ken thay say ef ye c'n shtand on yer oon twa pins, then yerr'no pished, aye?"

"R'yoo say'n m'drunk?"

"Wi' awl th'good stuff I purd ye, yee'd bettar be." He kicks the outer door closed behind us, and swings me around a bit before he locates the inner door to my bedroom. "Tho' ah'll say, took loonger'n ah thowt t'would. Ye c'n hold yer drink. 'Pressive."

I point grandly at the ceiling, "S'the vodka, y'see. S'good practiss," I cuddle into his neck, "They make good vodka on th'Rim."

"Bet thay doo."

"No' enuf wiskey tho."

"Ochh, aye?"

"Mm-hm. Wh-wiskey's from Central. So's wine. Vodka on th'Rim. Rum if'yer lucky. Beer in'b'tween."

He sets me in the middle of my bed, and sits down next to me.

"Soonds vile."

"Yeeah. Iss'no pretty."

"Yee'er pretty."

"Y'think so?"

He leans back on his elbows, then lays all the way down, his head resting on my shins.

"Mmhuh. Jus' 'bout th'furst thing I thout 'bout ye. Pretty. Hair awl curl'in an' wild. Glad Murrtagh sav'd ye. Had'do sumthin' 'bout yee'r ank'l. Wisht yee'd open yee'r eyes. Jeallus o' Angus. 'Ee go'tae shoot Jack fer ye."

He's rambling, but I love the sound of his voice. My mind is comfortable, rapidly dissolving. . . I'm just about to let myself drift off when he jumps up, exclaiming,

"Agch! Ye need watar!"

He starts shuffling towards the toilet station, but I make a wild, completely ineffectual grab at his forearm, "No, no, don' spen' too much money, J'mie. Stil need food t'morro."

He wrinkles his forehead at me, "Th'food fer t'morrow s'taken care of, Sasshenack."

"It is?"

"Aye."

"Oh." I relax back onto my pillows.

"S'ides, I ha'tae pish."

"'Kay." I mumble, yawning, "Bu' jus' a 'alf-liter. S'too s'pensive."

"Watar. . . ? Oor takin' pish?" he laughs.

I grin, and giggle in return, but don't answer otherwise.

When he comes back, he's holding a tall glass of water in each hand, and has a very strange look on his face.

"Sasshenack, why is'tere a gret bucket o' pish in yer wee tub?"

Bucket. . .

Oh. . . right.

It takes me several long heartbeats to remember the cover story I've made up for why I dislike relieving myself into potable water. . .

"S'periment. 'Bout ch-chem'chal fert'lizer. . ." Wait. . . was that what I had settled on? ". . . oar sum'thin."

He sits on the side of my bed, blinking for a while, "M'kay. Heer."

He hands me one of the glasses, and then holds a round, largish pill in front of my mouth. In the dim light it looks white, or pale pink, stark against his skin.

I rear back a bit and blink at what is obviously some sort of drug. It's been over half my life since I've had anything more than a headache tablet. . . but this is Jamie, so I melt into a soft, chiding smile -

"Ohh, you don' 'avta get me _high_ , J'mie. 'L _you_ 'avta do s'ask _niscly_."

"S'no'. . ." he starts, then trails off as I wrap my mouth around his fingertips, and deftly remove the pill with my tongue. I then proceed to lick up and down his fingers, and round and round his fingertips, growing more and more suggestive about it until the pill starts to dissolve on my tongue. . . . and fills my mouth with something chalky, metallic, bitter, and thoroughly unpleasant. . .

"Ugh! T'ese drugs _suck_!" I nearly gag, and quickly gulp back half of the glass of water he gave me.

"S'no' _drugs_ , Sasshenack. Min'ral tablet. Fer han'ower."

"Blegch!" I swish a mouthful of water around, and swallow it back with a grimace. "T'anks. I t'ink."

He takes a tablet of his own, and drains his water, putting the empty glass on the small table beside my bed. "Di'nae men'tin et."

He looks at me sidelong, and even in the low light I can tell he's smirking at me.

Suddenly, we're both laughing, wildly and uncontrollably, until we can't breathe, and I desperately need that bucket he mentioned. . .

"Bee ri' bac," I say, rolling off the far side of my bed.

"M'kay," he mumbles, throwing himself back on my pillows and stretching himself out on my quilt, "M'be heer. Ca'nae moove, an'way."

"Duz tha mean you'r drunk too, hm?" I tease.

"Aye. Ah s'a skunk."

I use the toilet station quickly, not bothering to turn on the light, knowing it would only be painful at the moment. I hastily wash my hands and brush my teeth, then drink back another half glass of water, before re-emerging into my room. I grab a nightgown on my way back to bed, and start to clumsily undress.

"Wai'. . . no, I ca'nae _watch_ ye Sasshenack," murmurs Jamie, wide-eyed.

"Then don' _look_ ," I say, as I yank up my side of the top blanket on my bed, and throw it over him.

"Oh. Ri'," he says, slightly muffled by the quilt. He hums a bit, and rolls to his side, until he's facing away from me. I quickly change clothes, and scoot under the rest of the covers. He yawns hugely, and resettles onto his back. "G'nigh'."

"'Night," I mumble, "J'mie?"

"Ay'?"

"Wha s'a skunk?"

"Mmm. Wee furry beastee. Black'n white. Stinks."

"Oh. Bu' then, you cantbee one."

He grunts, sleepily, "O'ay?"

"Mmhm. Yer no wee. An yer hair s'red. An you smell 'mazin."

"'S'jus' ah sayin'. 'Drunk ah s'a skunk'. Rhymes. S'all."

"Oh. M'sleep now."

"Mmmgood. Beds'fer sleepin'."

"Yep. Most o th'time. . ."

My consciousness plunges into deep, blessed, dreamless dark.


	34. Knight Moves

_Jamie's skin is burning beneath my hands. Not from fever, fire, or passion, but from the sun itself. A long day of work, done foolishly without protection, has taken its toll. I gently spread a cooling gel over his scorched cheeks, ears, neck and shoulders, singing to us both as I do so. It is a child's nursery tune, but the words are strange -_

_"Hey Nonny Nonny,  
_ _The Rowan-tree is bonny,  
_ _The Mountains are under the Spoon,  
_ _The Devil's Eye flashed,  
_ _To see such s'port,  
_ _And the Witches dance under the Moon."_

_He looks up at me with eyes the colour of a summer sky, and he raises a hand to wrap his fingers lightly around my wrist. There is ease in his touch, and gratitude in his eyes, and something much more than either in both._

_"The Devil's Eye is on us, my Light. Will we make it through?"_

_For answer, I raise my hands to the sky, and a bolt of lightning strikes my fingertips, the crash and roll of thunder carrying us away, away, away into the midnight dark, where nothing but a single star shines to guide us, call us, welcome us into space. As we draw closer and closer to it, we see that it is not a star at all, but single, silver rose, glowing with all the indomitable, relentless power of the Moon._

_When we are near enough to touch it, suddenly it falls, plummeting down, down, down to Earth, diving into a lake of blood, and throwing up a black mist, more dense and cloying than smoke. Through this we stumble, choking, searching for a way out._

_Then Lamb is before me, his eyes lit with silver light, his hands holding a small golden sphere as if it were the entire world._

_"One chance," he says, in a voice that might move mountains._

_Then, the mist is drawn away, up, up, into the branches of trees, leaving only the colour of itself behind, for the trees are black, black as soot, black as night, black as the soul of the Devil._

_The world turns upside down, and we are dropped onto the back of a great golden-winged creature, strange and monstrous, unnamed, unnamable, with pearls for eyes and sparks for breath, and it carries us through curtain after curtain of rain._

_In the distance, drums begin, and a high, wistful piping that coils 'round and 'round and 'round the flying beast, spinning us over and over, without end._

_A harsh, growling wind rises-_

"Wha' th'bluddy shite are ye doin' heer?"

"I might ask ye the same question. . ."

After a long period of deep sleep without any dreams at all, entering my usual early-morning's shallower, more dream-laden sleep - especially with _this_ dream in particular - is shock to the system enough, but to be suddenly snapped into full consciousness by Jamie's fierce whispering, and to hear a similar reply from a voice I can't immediately recognize, jolts me so severely, I very nearly leap out of bed, screaming with the shock of it.

I don't, but it is a near thing.

"A man doesnae need an excuse tae care for his girlfriend."

"Oh, _girlfriend_ is it?"

"Aye, 'tis. But any _other_ man sure as _hell_ needs an excuse tae barge inta a woman's room at quarter past five in the morning, _especially_ when he's made it quite clear he cannae stand that woman's guts. Have ye no' plagued her enough yet, Uncle?"

Uncle?

Who. . . ?

"We reached terms last night-"

"Now tha' I _ken_ is'nae true."

"Calling me a liar, are ye?"

"Aye. Tae yer face."

Thankfully, I am facing away from this confrontation, but I still hold my eyes closed, and feign sleep as best I can.

"How much has she told ye, I wonder?"

"Sae wonder then. Ye still havenae given me a reason no' tae put my fist through yer teeth, Dougal."

Dougal!

 _Dougal_?

Wait. . .

Dougal is Jamie's uncle?

My heart races, and adrenaline fills my veins. If that's so, then it changes _everything_. . .

"Fine. I'm here in search of my own. Not that 'tis any business of yours."

The cameras. How much does Jamie know about them, again? My muddled head doesn't quite remember at the moment. . .

"Ye spyin' on Colum is'nae my business? Ye have a very strange definition of the word then, _Uncle_."

A low growl I _definitely_ recognize rumbles through the room, "Accordin' tae the official rules of parley, I may attempt tae recover my own, by any means sanctioned by the rules of battle."

"Och, aye?" I feel the bed dip as Jamie sits up, and I can hear his scathing sarcasm, even through his whispers, "Sae ye'er doin' yer _oon_ dirty work nowadays, are ye? _Tha's_ good tae ken."

Actually, it is, at that. . .

"Tha's _enuf_! Ya wee plague. . ."

"Tit fer tat, Dougal, tha's fair, an' well ye ken et. An' _while_ we'er on the subject of what ye ken - just _who_ d'ye ken ye'er foolin'?"

"Foolin'?"

"Dinnae play the saint wi' me, ye auld letch - wha' _exactly_ are ye doin' in the _guest wing_ a'this time o' th'mornin', eh? I _ken_ it cannae only be fer a small handful o' cameras a very fine woman used tae force ye tae do nae moor than _leave her aloon_ \- which, let us no' forget, ye'er _still_ failing at - noo, ye wouldnae ha' made the effort in person unless ye were already nearby for. . . _other_ reasons."

My very hungover and still half-asleep brain scrambles to keep up with Jamie's logic. . .

Who are they talking about?

"Now that _absaelutely_ isnae yer business."

"Oh no? Shee's _marrit_!"

Not me, then.

"No' tae ye."

"Aye. And? Tha' doesnae make it any less wrong - _nor_ any less a mattar of _family honour_. Oor are ye going tae try and tell me _that_ isnae my business either?"

"Does yer wee Sassenach ken?"

"Who knows? But she has eyes, an' a brain. . ."

Yes, and ears, too.

". . . _an'_ moor than half a grain of sense. I wouldnae put it past her. Which ye tried tae do, last night. An' even the _stable hands_ saw through ye, Dougal. Shot through t'heart, indeed."

 _Geillis_!

"Tha' was an _accident_!"

"Was et? No' that 'Fly Me To Th'moon' would'ha been sae very subtle either, mind, but ye ken Mrs. Duncan was here the day the Cuckoos arrived, aye? Spent a good long time talkin' tae Mrs. Pritchard, so she said. How if she had time tae talk tae Gav MaQuarie too?"

"The drummer? Mebbe shee did. What of et?"

Jamie huffs, sharply, "D'ye intend tae spend _all_ yer days criminally underestimatin' women, Dougal? How can ye spend as much time swivin' 'em as ye do, and learn _nae_ respect?"

"An' wha's tha' supposed tae mean?"

"Et _means_ that I've never kent Gwyllyn tae make sitch a mistake as playin' th'wrong request befoor. Sae mebbe he didnae. Mebbe when ye towld Gav tae play yer request next, he already had an agreement wi' Mrs. Duncan tae play a different song furst, an' tha's the one he towld Gwyllyn. Mebbe ye were _set up_ , Dougal. Did ye no' think o' that?"

My heart swells. This man. _This_ man is on my side. I cannot believe my glorious luck. . .

There is a long, very tense pause.

"An' sae how did yer Sassenach react?"

"Ye'ed be _far_ bettar off askin' what she said tae _the men who wher laughin' at ye_ , Dougal," Jamie harrumphs.

"Fine. Wha' did she say?"

"She said ye always respect yer enemy. Oor it's yer oon head ye risk. An', in yer case, _booth_ of 'em. . ."

"Fine, fine, ye'ev made yer point. . . ye've quite the wee crush on a mere Sassenach, laddie."

Jamie snorts, "If ye mean I cannae help but ha' massive respect fer a woman wi' baws enough tae no' only stand up tae ye, Murtagh, Rupert, Angus, me, _an'_ Black Jack all in one day, but Colum the next, no' tae mention an entire dining room full o' Mackenzies - if ye mean I think shee's t'bonniest lass evar breathed and I'm blest tae have ever once been in her presence - if ye mean I ken she's the smartest, bravest, most capable woman I've evar met oor am likely tae meet - an' keep in mind I've met my sistar, aye? - if ye mean I canno' hardly imagine life wi'out her now. . . if _that's_ what ye mean, then aye, I've 'a wee crush'." I feel Jamie lay back down, and put a warm, soothing hand on my shoulder, "Now, if ye wilnae leave her aloon fer her own sake, Dougal, will ye a'least shove off sae I c'n enjoy my crush in peace?"

Dougal gives a low chuckle, " _Cherchez la femme_ , eh?"

"Nae," rumbles Jamie, "If ye think that, then ye nevar kent me at all, Uncle."

"I ken our _other_ arrangement has'nae changed."

"An' why would et?"

"Weel. . ." says Dougal, his calculating deviousness clear even in his whisper.

Jamie's hand grips my shoulder just a little tighter, "One o' these days, Dougal, ye'er goin' tae measure somun' else's corn by yer own half-bushel once tae often, and cheat yerself sae badly ye'el nevar recover."

"Time will tell," Dougal harrumphs, and closes the door, almost silently.

In a flash, Jamie gets up, and a moment or two later, I hear the outer door close behind Dougal, and Jamie almost runs out to the sitting room. I clearly hear the lock click shut, Jamie turns the key so emphatically.

Then, he's back in my bedroom, standing in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me.

I turn over, and slowly, being extremely careful of my head, I sit up. In the dim light, our eyes meet, and all at once several things are clear.

He knows I heard. He knows I have a lot of questions. I know he's going to answer them. So does he.

So I go ahead and ask the first one.

". . . Uncle?"


	35. Morning Light

"Did ye no' ken Dougal an' Colum were my uncles?"

Jamie's voice is stunned, as though he thinks he told me all about this long ago.

I sigh a bit, and hold my head. The blue, lambent light of early morning isn't painful, but I'm still quite overwhelmed by the number of things happening at once. Strange dreams, men in my bedroom when I have no memory of how I got back here myself, and a rocking headache is already more than enough, but here I sit, my stomach churning with unpleasant feelings regarding Dougal, my heart still singing with the opposite of unpleasant feelings regarding Jamie, and now. . . how am I supposed to understand this level of family intrigue at this hour of the morning, even if I didn't have the great-grandmother of all hangovers?

"How exactly would I 'ken' that, Jamie? No one around here tells me anything - except you, and Murtagh, a bit."

"Weel, ye _do_ ken my real name, an'. . . erhm. . ."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, "You have _five_ names, Mr. James Alexander Malcolm _Mackenzie_ Fraser, and considering that upwards of 75% of everyone else around here is _also_ named Mackenzie, I'm about as likely to assume you're _that_ closely related to the Laird as I am to assume you're Laoghaire's first cousin!"

I groan a bit, then rub my temples. Whatever Jamie is doing in my room, and whatever just happened with Dougal, my head is still looming over me, like an old, damaged Skycity, creaking and groaning as it repeatedly changes course to try and avoid yet another squadron of incoming enemy fighters. . .

And this conversation isn't helping.

Jamie snorts, then sighs, "Aye, fair enough." He takes a deep breath, then dives headlong into an explanation I can only barely follow - "My mam is the eldest of six siblings - Ellen, Dougal, Colum, Janet, Flora and Jocasta. She married my da against her father's wishes, an'-"

"Hold on a minute," I interrupt, trying desperately to focus, "Back up. Dougal is older than Colum?"

"Aye, by moor than a year."

"So. . . how is Colum the Chieftain and Laird, and Dougal just War Chief?"

And why on earth am I having this conversation before six in the morning, while hung over, with a man I don't remember arriving here last night? Why?

My head twinges.

Dear god, why?

Jamie sits back down beside me on the bed, "MacKenzie is a Tanist clan, mo Sorcha. Mam's father, Jacob Mackenzie, put the succession tae his advisers, and tae every male of age in the clan at the time, as has allus been MacKenzie tradition, and between themselves they chose Colum tae be their leader, no' Dougal. If he'ed been dead set against it, Granda might ha' fought their choice, but he wasnae, an' he didnae."

Finally, several large pieces of Leoch's puzzle fall into place for me. My head doesn't clear, I still feel incredibly fuzzy and strung out, but once I've recovered, I feel sure I'll be able to understand whole new aspects of what's going on in this place. . .

"This was before the Clan Restoration Act, a'course," Jamie continues, "Sae it was largely a ceremonial title a' the time, though I doubt verrah much if it didnae still sting somethin' awful. Dougal had counted his chickens, ye see - oor so my mam allus said."

"I bet he had. . ."

And, clearly, he still is. Though, if that were his only sin, neither Jamie nor I would be sitting here now.

"For Dougal tae be overshadowed by a younger brother, an' a disabled one at that - disabled in body, no' in mind, a'course - bu' it still ha'tae have cut deep. Even though. . ."

He stops, and puts a finger to his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say next.

But I _am_ sure.

"Even though Dougal loves his brother."

Jamie looks at me, eyes wide, as though seeing me for the first time.

"He loves him with a depth of feeling I doubt he has for any other creature," I say, dreamily, "And that must be the most galling thing of all, because no matter how much he might hate that his brother has what he doesn't, Dougal can't help but admit it - Colum is, unquestionably, _his_ Chieftain too. Let _any_ one else even _suggest_ that Colum isn't an ideal Chief and the perfect Laird, and I'd bet a considerable sum Dougal would strike their head from their shoulders without a second thought."

Jamie is shaking his head slowly in disbelief, "How. . . _how_ did ye ken all tha', Sassenach?"

"It was obvious from the first moment," I say, hearkening back to that fateful garage and those arguing, contentious voices, with one smooth, calculating, devious voice dominating them all. . .

All except one. . .

"And so that means, you, James Fraser, are quite a threat to him."

He half-smiles, "Am I now?"

"Of course you are. The eldest surviving son of an older sister, smart, handsome, talented. . . and, most importantly, well loved by the members of his clan?" I click my tongue, last night's confrontation on the dance floor with Dougal making new, even more disgusting sense to me, "If the succession is determined as you say, he must play his cards exactly right. . . or _you'll_ be the next Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie."

He shakes his head sharply, "Nae. It'll nevar happen, because I dinnae _want_ it, Sassenach. I'm Clan Fraser, no' MacKenzie. I'm nae moor a threat tae him than Rob is, livin' wi' Mam in the south of France. An' if, by some wild chance, the clan evar chose me against my own wish, I'd shift the title on as fast as humanly possible. Dougal kens tha' - nae'un bettar."

The back of my neck tenses as I attempt to force my brain to engage in a logical discussion, "Maybe he does, on some level. But I bet he still fears you. . . You're _here_ after all, not in France. The men love you, you cut quite a figure, especially in a kilt, and. . ."

I take a deep, considering breath, and decide Dougal no longer deserves my silence.

"Seeing that Colum doesn't have a legitimate heir. . . well. . ."

Jamie rounds on me, his jaw slack, beyond shocked now, "Ye ken _tha'_ too?"

"Yes."

"Bu' how?"

Quickly, I outline the three encounters that revealed the truth to me – Hamish greeting Dougal my first morning here, both Colum and Dougal's reactions to my innocent comment about the boy at supper that night, and the section I deliberately left out when I told Jamie about my first private confrontation with Dougal.

"He confirmed it himself, you see. Not that it needed much confirming by that point."

"Christ, Sorcha, is it no' safe tae have secrets around ye?"

"I wouldn't recommend it, no. Not unless you have a very good poker face, at least. I've always been far too good at reading people."

"Includin' me?"

I groan as my head throbs sharply, "Oooh. You're a special case, Jamie Fraser."

"Am I indeed?"

"Yes, you see, I got close to you." I smile, remembering the cupboard, and all at once I am back there, in the dark, pressed so near to Jamie that I can't help but breathe him in. . . My heart gives a little leap of happiness so sweet that for a moment my headache almost releases, "Very close, very fast. And now it's difficult for me to get the distance needed to see you properly."

I reach out for his hand, and he takes it instantly, "Is tha' so?"

"It is. But I wouldn't trade the two, Jamie. Not for the world. I'd rather be close to you than have creepily accurate insight into your heart any day."

Gingerly, I lay my head on his shoulder.

Jamie harrumphs a bit, "Sae ye _didnae_ ken that I was Dougal's nephew?"

I huff a laugh, and my head instantly regrets it, "Ow. I'm good at reading _people_ , Jamie. That doesn't mean I can read _minds_. Until last night, he, you, and I haven't been in the same room with each other since we were in the van on the way here. The few times I've seen you two interact, he's treated you almost exactly as he treats most of the other adults around him, and he's never once _called_ you nephew. And I've never seen you and Colum interact at all – the one time I mentioned you to him, it was as Jamie MacTavish, and he didn't correct me. So how was I to know?"

"Weel, when you put it like tha'. . ." Very, almost extremely gently, he leans his head against mine, "For some reason I thought for certain I had told ye, but I suppose I hadnae. Nae'un _could_ know wi'out bein' told, a'course. Dougal isnae the demonstrative type." He swipes a tired hand across his face, "Tha's how I kent about Hamish, y'see. I noticed Dougal paying a deal moor attention tae the lad than he evar had tae me at that age – an' no' in a worrying way, either. It all seemed sae. . ."

"Natural?"

"Aye, tha's the very word. Natural. An' sae I kent he nevar would be doin' sae if Hamish wer'nae moor tae him than a nephew."

I rub my forehead, chasing my headache to my temples.

"Do you know how much Colum knows?"

"Nae," he sighs, ruefully, "But, seein' as he's no' blind, nor stupid, nor senile, he must ken some, or all of it. He loves the lad too, though, that much I ken. An' Hamish is a thrivin', happy boy, thank Christ above. I couldnae stand by tae see any child mistreated, much less my own kin."

I massage my temples, but the pain just moves again. . .

"Does Dougal know you know?"

"He may. Why?"

I pause, mind simmering with all the implications and possibilities, even despite the fog lingering in my brain. It's clear I am going to have to go on the offensive with Dougal soon, and considering just how deeply allied I am with Jamie now, I must figure him into any plan I make.

I yawn, and mumble into Jamie's shoulder, "What, if you don't mind me asking, is the 'other arrangement' you have with Dougal?"

We've gotten wildly off-topic, and I still need to understand what exactly Dougal was doing in my room at such an odd hour of the morning. It had to have been more than he admitted to. . .

Doesn't it?

I beat back another pounding twinge in my head, and force myself to think. Would Dougal really take the risk and trouble to retrieve the cameras himself, and now, of all times? I feel in my bones that Jamie is right, and that it was out of character for Dougal to be doing his own dirty work, especially here and now.

And besides, short as their conversation was, more than half of it still went over my head.

Jamie sighs heavily, and rubs the back of his neck, "I. . . weel. . . ye ken when Dougal was all worrit about ye knowin' he sometimes sneaks past his assigned campaign-zone boundaries?"

"I do."

"Weel, I'm among the ones who go with him sometimes. Tha's what we were doing when Murtagh found ye, y'see. Oor, rather, we were oon t'way back."

"Alright. . ." I knit up my forehead, waiting for him to actually explain.

"I. . . ah. . . hmphm," I can feel his shoulders go rigid as he searches for words, "I ha' ceartain. . . furst-hand knowledge tha' Dougal finds helpful oon occasion." I raise my head slowly, and look at him. The pre-dawn light in the room is still dim, but I think I can make out a reddening of his cheeks, "An' I ha' a . . . weel, a 'party trick' ye might call it, tha' is often useful tae him."

"A. . . party trick?"

"Aye. Summat along those lines."

The hell?

"A. . . _vague_ party trick, that you do at unspecified times, for unspecified reasons, at mystery locations beyond arbitrary borders?"

"Aye."

I sigh, "I'm much too hung-over for this kind of thing, Jamie."

"Aye, sorrae Sassenach," he says, squeezing my hand tighter, "I'd be clearer, but I'm no'. . . that is. . . I dinnae. . ." he sighs sharply at himself, "Can we call this'un _my_ secret, d'ye think? Can ye stand no' knowin' the details?"

"Of course, if that's what you want," I say, lightly stroking his fingers, "We did agree that secrets were allowed."

"We did, but-"

"The real question is, why did Dougal only mention it after going off on you about being my boyfriend? I may not know much French, but I know ' _Cherchez la femme_ ' isn't a compliment."

And I _really_ didn't like the ugly little laugh Dougal gave when he said it. There was something ominous about it. . .

"He. . ." Jamie momentarily releases my hand, only to wrap his arm around mine and entangle our fingers together, gripping my whole arm like a lifeline, "I praised ye, Sassenach."

I can't help but smile, remembering everything Jamie said about me. He hasn't been so direct about his feelings to my face yet, but most of what he said I've already been able to infer from our previous conversations. . . or taste in his kisses. Except for one thing. One new, delightful affirmation of how he really feels about me. . .

"Mm. Can't imagine life without me, huh?"

"I most certainly dinnae want tae, mo chridhe," quickly, he kisses the top of my head, "An' Dougal's the sort who thinks I could only be sayin' such things tae set myself up a convenient excuse tae get out of things - tae get out of our agreement."

"That must be some party trick you do," I snort, more sarcastically than I mean to, but my head is very sore, and my feelings about Dougal are very dark indeed. . .

"Aye. 'Tis. It's alsoo. . . no' exactly fun, or comfortable for me. But it _is_ in searvice of a cause both Dougal an' I believe in, sae I endure it."

My stomach drops, and Dougal's voice echoes in my ears, telling me he can make Jamie's life a bitter, bitter hell. . .

But _why_ would Dougal. . . shit, why would _Jamie_. . .?

Ice-cold fingers of terror lance through my stomach. Again, I've forgotten about Culloden. But that must be it – what other cause could Jamie and Dougal possibly have in common?

I scoff, "You mean, he's _using_ you, and you let him, because he's your uncle."

"Agh," Jamie grunts, "Tha's a wee bit harsh, mo Sorcha, jus' because-"

"No it isn't," I snap, and jump out of bed, headache be damned, "Do you want to know how much you're worth to him?" I take two paces to my dressing table, and remove the plastic cup that holds the greenhouse flowers from the mouth of my enamel bottle. Jamie's eyes follow the cup, because among the bouquet it is currently holding are the yellow rose and carnation that he gave me, but I couldn't care less about flowers at the moment. I dump the cameras and microphones into my hand, stalk back to the bed, and thrust them into his hands.

"There," I say, "There's your price, Jamie. That's how much you're worth. He was more than willing, even eager, to trade you to me for them."

"Trade. . . _me_?" he moves the deactivated bits of electronics bewilderedly around his palm, "But. . ."

"Yes, _you_ , my darling lad. You're a battle prize to him. An asset to be traded away, used for blackmail, or if that doesn't pan out, worked to a shred, worn out, and tossed aside when he's finished with you. A _thing_ ," I say, mournfully, "On par with broken spy equipment."

He closes his fist tightly around the bits of metal and plastic, "I think. . . ye'ed bettar explain, Sassenach."

I get back under the covers, and relate to him, word-for-word, exactly what was said between Dougal and I during our dance. And I tell him a great deal of what I thought, too.

"So, you see, he's more interested in getting the upper hand on me than he is in even thinking out his plans properly. And you were just an incidental resource. A tool to be used," I cross my arms, remembering, "To be traded for spoils of war – not even treated as Human. I was so mad, I almost throttled him right there."

"Soo. . ." Jamie draws the word out, clearly thinking of several things at once, "He _was_ here accordin' tae the rules o' parley, then?"

I nod, "Yes, he was."

His mouth works for a while, but he says nothing.

I'm not sure I can convince him to stop supporting the plan for Culloden. I'm not even sure I want to try. Unless I reveal _everything_ I know about the future, there's no way removal of the Scottish contingent of Peace Agents – even by ambush and murder – can be framed as an ultimately bad thing. How could it possibly be a significant step on the road towards nuclear Armageddon? Jamie might like me a lot, but I doubt even he would believe such a wild notion, much less that I was born generations _after_ that same apocalypse.

But here, now, Dougal is exploiting him. I don't know the specifics, but my darling, sweet laddie is a victim of an injustice. A small, perhaps even insignificant injustice. . .

And I've been looking for one of those to solve.

It won't save the world – it'll do nothing close to that. But it might help someone I care about be happier-

"Sassenach. . ." Jamie says, breaking into my thoughts, "How is it ye ken sae much about noble warfare?"

I blink.

Oh. . .

"Twice now, ye'ev counterstruck an experienced Scottish War Chieftain in head-tae-head combat, both times on a spur of the moment, an' last night t'was alsoo in a public setting. Ye took him on wi'out hardly blinkin', an' no' losing a step in yer dance, mo Sorcha. I was watchin' ye close, and ye took it all in perfect stride. We lads might ha' stood yer guard, but ye fought the battle alone, wi' nae moor than lightnin'-fast instinct, a sharp tongue, an' such a knowledge of the rules tha' I cannae hardly believe it." He sighs, and shakes his head at me, "I praised ye tae Dougal no' jus' because I meant evary word, mo nighean, but because I wil'nae evar again be caught underestimatin' ye, and here I am, thinkin' mebbe I still am! Are the modes o' chivalry _that_ common a subject of study for folk in Oxford?"

It's a good, fair question. For several very long seconds, I say nothing. Then, I slowly lean back against the headboard, and sigh, tears pricking in my eyes for no reason at all. . .

"My father didn't understand me much," I say, finally, "I don't even know that he liked me, really. He was. . . he was a narrow-minded snob, overpaid and over-privileged to the point of utter ridiculousness. Lamb called him a poor stick-in-the-mud, and so he was. For all his money, he had as much class as a steel girder."

I pause for a moment, bringing myself up short. Why does that word sound familiar? I mentally shake my head, and press on.

"Practically the only thing that redeemed him from being a total pain in the arse was that he was keen enough to know some of his deficiencies. That's how, despite everything, I know he loved me. Every time he had anything to do with me, he was _determined_ that I would have the nobility he knew he lacked. I was fed so much class growing up, it's a miracle I didn't become a Duchess by pure osmosis!"

Jamie chuckles, "Now _tha'_ I'd pay tae see. . ."

"And then, after being born into money, and brought up like that, I managed to fall in love with a sanitation worker."

Jamie stops laughing and blinks at me, "Ye mean. . . Frank was. . . ?"

I nod, "He was as common-code as they make them. A street-sweeper, a garbageman, who was anything but a garbage man to me. He had more true class than any ivory-tower professor. . . and my father couldn't stand him."

"Ah. Tha' explains a lot."

I nod, and reach over to him again, "Yes. So you see, my dear lad, most of my life has been one fight or another, and the only code I was ever taught was noble warfare. It'd be odd if I didn't know the rules by now."

"Makes eminent sense now, Sassenach." He puts an arm gently around my shoulders, then looks questioningly down at me, "Sae who is Lamb, then?"

"Father's brother. And his complete opposite," I settle into Jamie's embrace, and lay my still-twinging head on his chest, "My uncle. Who loved me like a third parent."

"Mmm. It's nae wonder ye saw through Dougal, then."

"Yes. And speaking of Dougal. . ."

I'm exhausted, and ready to go back to sleep, but I can't let this matter drop just yet. . .

"Hmmphm. Aye." He sounds about ready to go back to sleep himself.

"He's treating you very badly Jamie. Is there anything you – well, _we_ \- can do about it?"

"Dinnae ken yet. Y'see, it isnae a mattar of him wantin' a mostly symbolic title, nowadays. The next Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie will have full place in the Council - by birthright, no' election."

"Mmmm."

Politics. Ugh.

When it's before six in the morning, and while I'm hung over, I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to hate politics. . .

Jamie rolls the cameras in his hand a bit, "Ye should probably shift where these are hid, Sassenach. Wheer d'ye want 'em this time?"

"Mmph. Don' know." I shrug heavily, "Why don' you keep them for now?"

His weight shifts next to me, and with a click, he turns on the little lamp next to his side of the bed, filling the room with a warm, pale glow. It's bright enough to easily overpower the dim bluish light of early morning, and, more importantly, is more than enough to fling a thousand daggers straight into my brain.

"By all the gods that may or may not exist!" I shout, twisting my eyes shut, not that it helps much, "What the _hell_ did you do that for?"

"Ach, sorrae!" he yelps, and jumping up, begins to move around my room, opening something, picking something up, I don't know, nor can I force myself to care at the moment, what with my suddenly screeching, rolling, diving head to manage. I haven't had any nausea until just now, and heaven help me if it isn't _overwhelming_. . .

I hear the water spigot run, and a moment later, Jamie's voice rumbles close to me, "Heer, take these, Sassenach."

Slowly, I open my eyes onto a full glass of water, and about a half-dozen tiny, greasy-looking capsules. I just look a sharp, surly question up at him.

He smiles, the _fiend_ , and prompts me to take the pills again, "S'all right, Sassenach, it's just some evening primrose oil. I make it meself."

I grunt, unconvinced, but unwilling to argue. After I swallow them back, I continue to sip listlessly at the water, focusing my entire being on trying to control my rebellious stomach. I take no notice of what Jamie does for several long moments, but eventually, I become aware that he's sitting next to me in bed again, on top of the covers, but wrapped in my quilt.

I want to snuggle into him and sleep for at least a week. But, he shouldn't be here. . . Quite beyond the fact that I don't remember how either of us got here last night, I ought to have ordered him out the minute Dougal left. Not for my reputation or anything - but for his. I want to make it as easy as possible for him to be the princely white knight that Murtagh has raised him to be. And yet, somehow, having him here feels like the most natural thing - the most comfortable, the most _important_ thing in the world - and I don't want to give that feeling up just yet.

"So," I moan a bit at the vibrations of my own voice, "Somebody's been sleeping in my bed."

He huffs a quiet chuckle, "Aye."

"Care to explain yourself?"

There is a very long, very shocked pause.

"Ye. . . dinnae remember?"

"At the moment, not a whit."

" _Christ_ Sassenach. . . then how are ye sae calm?" he asks, wonderingly, "How have ye no' torn me tae shreds yet fer jus' bein' heer?" He points towards the door, "How did ye no' reduce Dougal tae a pulp the second he burst in? I'd only been awake a minute myself then, an' was just thinking on gettin' some water when I heard yer breathin' change. Then I looked up, and there he was. _I_ near jumped out of my skin - how did _ye_ no' skelp the _both_ o' us at tha' very instant?"

I shrug a bit, "Well, primarily because I didn't recognize his voice right away, and as for you. . ." I give into my desires a little, and cuddle into his arm, "I'm so far from objecting to you being here, Jamie, that I was actually dreaming about you right before your whispering woke me up."

"I see. . ." he pauses, and then gives a long, soft sigh, "An' ye really dinnae remember _anything_ from last night?"

Just a minute. Why does it matter so much if I remember or not? What happened? Did I give away that I'm from the future? Did he reveal some dark secret from his childhood? Or. . .

There's no _way_ we. . .

 _Surely_ not. . .

"Well, if my brain runs true to form, I'll probably remember almost everything eventually. Most likely in bits and pieces all throughout today and tomorrow. But uh. . . I wouldn't object to hearing what _you_ remember."

Smooth one, Beauchamp. There's no _way_ he didn't see right through that.

"Sae wha's th'las' thing ye do remember?", he says, far too casually for my liking.

"Uhmm." I cast my mind back, "Doing 'gel-oh' shots with you and Angus."

Doing anything to try and forget the feeling of Jamie's hands on my arse, of his kisses burning on my lips, of his soul itself invading my very dreams. . .

To forget that haunting song, and a waking vision that hasn't totally left me even yet. . .

"Agch, the limoncello 'uns?"

"They. . . were lemon-flavoured, yes."

"Hmmf, those are th'deadliest kind."

"Oh, are they?" I say, trying to be sarcastic, but not quite managing it.

"Aye. Worse'n the crème de menthe ones, even."

"Those I don't remember."

"Cannae blame ye." Gently, he pats my knee through the blankets.

"And. . . after that?"

"Weel, 'tis all a bit blurry, ye ken, but ye got inta a 'rap battle' with Angus and Gil."

Well, _that's_ certainly a new one. . .

"A what?"

"Aye, tha' was my reaction. It seemed tae involve a lot of fast-spoken words an' terrible puns."

"Oh." I take a long sip of water, trying to steady myself. "You know, there isn't any other kind. Of pun, I mean."

He chuckles, "Aye, true enough. An' by the time the three of ye had half the room chantin' some truly awful dick jokes, I kent ye'ed had enough, and carried ye away."

"Mm. Now _that_ I think I do remember, a bit. You literally threw me over your shoulder, didn't you?"

He looks over at me. I suddenly realize just how bleary-eyed he looks himself, but his voice is still fond, "Aye. I did."

"And. . . after that?"

"Weel. T'was a long walk back tae yer room. There was a lot o' protestin'."

I snort a bit, "I bet there was."

"Aye, ye called me many a thing, not one o' them complimentary."

"I'm sorry."

He grins, "Och, nae. T'was quite entertainin'."

"Oh, was it?"

"Aye. An' then eventually, dyin' sheep were mentioned, an' I think there was some contention over the quality of Irn-Bru, an' there was definitely somethin' about theremins makin' good vodka."

Theremins?

What on earth are theremins?

Wait. . .

There. . . rims. . .

And vodka.

Uh oh.

I manage a half-smile, "Yeah, that sounds like drunk me."

"An' ye went on fer a while, about experimental fertilizer bein' too expensive, beer in between lucky rooms, and whisky bein' central tae it all. Didnae quite ken what ye were on about there."

The Rim. And Central.

I let out a tiny sigh of relief.

If that's all I mentioned, then no harm done. I can probably pass it off as nothing more than drunken ramblings.

"I probably didn't know what I was on about either, Jamie."

Which is, almost certainly, no more than the absolute truth.

"Aye. Probably no'. An' then I carried ye heer tae yer bed, an' ye, uh. . . weel. . . "

"Yes?"

My stomach knots with completely inexpressible tension. What doesn't he want to tell me?

"Ye may oor may no' ha' offered tae suck me off."

"Oh, is that all?" I relax, and manage a genuine laugh, "Yeah, that sounds like drunk me too."

"Does it?"

His voice is very dubious, his expression hard and quite unhappy.

I shrug, "If several experiences with Frank are any gauge, then yeah," I take a quick sip of water, "So. . . did I?"

His eyebrows fly up his forehead, and he makes a strange gurgling sound, "Fairly _ceartain_ I'd remember it if ye had."

"So, that's a no?"

"Tha's a no."

"Ah. Good," I chuckle, "If I ever do, _I'd_ rather like to remember it too."

"Sassenach, this. . ." he gestures at me, bewildered, "This isnae the reaction I expected from ye, I mus' say."

I smile and shake my head, "What, do you want me to be _horrified_? Do you want me to be ashamed? Do you want me to be ashamed of _you_?"

"Nae, is'nae _that_ , it's only. . ." He looks sternly down at his hands.

"What? What is it?"

"Ye. . . ye thought I was feedin' ye _drugs_ , Sassenach. . . like. . . like I was gonna force myself on ye oor summat. . ."

"And I - welcomed the idea?"

"My fingers ha' _never_ been happier." His fingertips rest very gently for a moment on my lips, and it's clear what he means. But his eyes are very grim indeed.

"And now. . . what, you're worried about me?"

"Aye. I dinnae like the thought of any man takin' advantage of ye in that state. Oor takin' advantage of ye. . . _evar_. . ."

"Jamie, do you seriously think I'd have even considered getting slightly _tipsy_ unless I knew you were going to be there the whole time? Do you think I'd get drunk around any other man? Especially _that_ drunk?"

"But. . ."

"James Fraser, I'll have you know I only let loose like that when I'm with someone I thoroughly trust. And sometimes that trust translates into offering sexual favours, yes. Sometimes I demand them too, by the way. I'm not ashamed of it. You don't need to be either. Especially since you _didn't_ take advantage."

"Dammit!" he snaps, growling, "Next time _warn_ me when ye plan tae trust me tae extremes then, aye?" He cups my face, but very gently – clearly he knows that my head still feels like a cracked eggshell, "I couldnae bear it if. . . if I evar failed ye. . ."

Oh.

Oh, my _sweet_ man. . .

"It wasn't exactly the _plan_ , my lad. Or I _would_ have warned you. But after. . . after that last dance. . ."

And a terrifying, glorious waking dream that seems to have drawn this amazing, _perfect_ man into my unknown, labyrinthine fate. . .

"You kissed me to _pieces_ , Jamie Fraser. After that, I needed. . . I had to. . ."

I had to stop. I had to forget. I had to _run_.

But the point is, I ran to _him_. I look into his eyes, trying to get him to understand. He's my refuge now. My safe place. My anchor.

My home.

Slowly, he lowers his head to mine, and his mouth undoes me again. Gently, softly, making no demands, he still somehow manages to leave me aching and breathless.

"What if I had'nae been heer when Dougal. . ." he whispers against my throat.

I snort softly, "Then I'd have leaped out of bed, tackled him to the floor, and choked him into unconsciousness."

He pulls back sharply, "Ye c'n doo tha'?"

I shrug, "I'd have found a way."

He shivers a bit, giving a slightly uncomfortable laugh, "Aye, I bet ye would have, at that."

"And I'd probably have thrown in a kick to the balls, just to make the point clear."

He huffs a laugh, but sobers again very quickly, "Have ye evar taken a self-defense course, Sassenach?"

"No."

"Why no'?"

"Because sugar beets very rarely assault anyone. Look, _why_ are talking about this now? So I got drunk and propositioned you, and you were a gentleman about it. Right?"

"Weel, I suppose you _might_ put it like tha'. . ."

"Alright then. So what? It's all over and done with. I'll most likely remember it all eventually, and if I'm offended by anything you did, I'll let you know, okay?"

He ponders for a minute, then nods, "Alright."

I hum a bit, and cuddle into his chest, yawning hugely.

"Ach, ye need yer sleep, Sassenach." He lays me back on my pillows.

"Mmhm. And you should go. . ."

He laughs softly, but he's already standing, rearranging the quilt over me, "Throwin' me out, are ye?"

"No." I grunt a bit and snuggle under the covers, "You can stay if you want. But I give you fair warning - the next time I have you in my bed, Jamie Fraser, you're going to prove that True Scotsman thing."

"Och, I am, am I?"

"You are. The very next time."

"Soo. . . there's tae _be_ a next time, then?" He pauses tucking me in, and meets my eyes.

"Eventually. . ." I smile, "I'm pretty sure there will be. But under _much_ different circumstances."

"Mmm. I rather like the sound of that."

"Don't get cocky now. . ."

"Och, 'tis far too late for that Sassenach." He leans over, and gives me a completely chaste kiss on the temple. Somehow, it feels like the most intimate thing we've ever done. "Sleep well, mo Sorcha."

I'm already nodding off as he gathers up his sporran and boots, "Mm. You've called me that before. Are you ever going to tell me what it means?"

"Sorcha?"

I nod.

He stops in the middle of pulling on his boots. "It's yer name. Claire. But in the Gàidhlig." He comes back over to me, and runs his cool, soothing fingertips across my forehead, "Mo Sorcha. My Claire."

I fall asleep with the feel of his touch on my skin, and the sound of his voice in my ears.


	36. Cleaning Day

I scowl at myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth. I am entirely convinced that everything is ugly this morning. From the dreary gray sky outside, to the flat off-white walls of my room, to the dull brown carpeting. Even the gaudy knick-knacks that adorn most of the flat surfaces around me seem vulgar and disgusting at the moment, and the faint rim of purple around my eyes and the wild riot of my hair do nothing to contradict these impressions.

What a morning to have a hangover. Even though the three extra hours of sleep I got after Jamie left have eased my headache somewhat, they also managed to completely sour my mood.

I grumble a bit as I rinse my mouth, grimacing as I spit out the taste of mint. Mint! It is a flavour I only rarely encounter on Skycity 15, except in medicinal applications, and so unless I have a horribly stuffy nose, or a swollen, scratchy throat, I don't enjoy the taste at all. Whoever decided to put it in _toothpaste_ of all things should be forced to swallow a whole tube of the stuff at once. Toothpaste should taste like lemon verbena, or rosemary, or ginger, or even licorice root – not _mint_.

Though, for all that, the taste does spark something in my mind. . .

Jamie mentioned something about me taking mint gell-oh shots last night. No, no, it was menthol. . . or menthe? Something like that. But I can't remember doing it, or anything about them – not yet.

It'd be nice if I could tell myself I cared, one way or the other. But I don't, really. Not being able to remember is just another unpleasantness of this unpleasant day. I doubt I've been gifted true oblivion – I'll remember eventually, whether I like it or not.

I step into the tub, to use the primitive composting toilet I've rigged up out of mechanisms scrounged from around the manager's barn. It's a clumsy, ramshackle object, but it does the job – if a bit inefficiently.

Kind of like me here at Leoch.

I rest my head in my hands. Ugly day equals ugly thoughts. I really shouldn't be surprised.

The root of the problem, of course, is that I've thrown myself so completely into being Farm Manager here, I've had neither the time nor the peace of mind to think things out properly. So much has happened, I've discovered so much, and so many things have changed so rapidly, I can hardly blame myself for being overwhelmed. I've been running on adrenaline and instincts almost constantly since I got here. Last night was just a fantastically over-the-top coup de grâce.

My mind is a mess. No wonder I can only perceive things as messy.

I suppose it's apt that today is Saturday.

Week-ends have never meant all that much to me. Growing up without a religion, and working a job that doesn't care what minute it is, let alone day, never gave me any personal emotional connection to Friday, Saturday or Sunday.

However, Saturdays are Mrs. Fitz's big cleaning day, and, as I learned last week - it does no good to argue with her or her helpers. It is far wiser to just get out of the way.

Perhaps today would be a good day to spend in the library. After all, I've been wanting to explore the place a bit more ever since I discovered it – on that brief but necessary absence from my rooms last week, to let Mrs. Fitz's cleaning team do their job without my hindrance.

I nod to myself - it's perfect. A quick visit to the greenhouse, and I'll spend the rest of today in the library. Thanks to last night's indulgent abundance, not to say blatant excess, I'm not hungry, so that won't be a problem either.

As I get up, I note that the composting compartment of the bucket is almost full. I'm going to have to officially announce my little "fertilizer experiment" sometime soon. . .

A wave of half-memories slam into me.

I groan. Here we go. . .

I'm often not quite sure whether it's a blessing or a curse that no matter how plastered I manage to get, my brain always insists on recording every slurred word, every idiotic laugh, every embarrassing joke I make, and then throwing them all back in my face for days afterwards.

I sneer as I wash my hands.

This time it's definitely a curse.

Last night I told Jamie this bucket was part of a chemical experiment. That was what he'd meant when he said I'd talked about experimental fertilizers. And somehow he must have mixed that up with me telling him that water was too expensive, and that the vodka from the Rim was good practice. . .

And somewhere in there I think I asked him what a skunk was.

Wait. . .

What?

What on earth is a skunk?

I can't remember what his responses were yet, so I still don't know. . .

But they were clearly all things that might very easily have given away that I'm from the future.

It's the closest I've gotten to lying to him since we made our vow of truth.

My mind wobbles a bit, unsure where this day is going to lead. Alcohol is a depressant after all – and I didn't exactly need another one of those. It's no wonder that I've already started to slip a little sideways. . . I can see the edges of the abyss on the horizons of my mind, beckoning me forward in all directions, even as I plead with myself to stay grounded in my gray, starkly unpleasant reality.

Last night was every kind of unwise. Even the parts I can't remember yet. _Especially_ the parts I can't remember yet.

And I only have myself to blame.

I sigh as I get dressed, allowing myself to relive several of last night's more pleasant memories. Jamie giving me strawberries. Kissing him over the bar counter. My first sight of him in a kilt. Our first dance. The press of his thigh against my own, with only the incidental barrier of cloth in between. Sitting next to him, even as we stood side-by-side against attacks from all comers, almost supernaturally keyed into each other. Our eyes and spirits locking together, as powerful music spoke across our merged destinies. The warmth of his hands and mouth against me after an eerie waking dream I somehow know for certain that he shared with me. . .

I blink.

Lock.

Key.

Why do those words remind me of something?

I shake my head. Regardless, I can't bring myself to regret a single moment of any of it, no matter how much I know I should. . .

We make a good team. We make a good _couple_. I wish, not for the first time, that I was not on a mission, that the two hundred years between us didn't loom like a mountain over me, threatening every moment to crush our connection. Because that connection. . . I've never felt anything like it before. Nothing Frank and I had between us ever came anywhere close to the instantaneous, bone-deep burning I feel with Jamie. If only he and I belonged to the same era of history. . .

I shake my head again. Wishful thinking won't get me anywhere good in this world. For Lamb's sake - for the _world's_ sake - I force my mind to think of other matters.

I have things to do that Jamie does not, and cannot know about.

I grab my empty steel bottle off the dressing table, only barely avoiding knocking over the flower-filled plastic cup. I didn't bother putting it back in the bottle last night. Nor do I take the trouble now. It's been a few days since I've cut a fresh bouquet, and now is as good a time as any. But on a whim, I do remove the yellow rose and carnation, quickly tie a bit of string around them, and hang them upside down on one of the posts holding up the dressing table's mirror. Mrs. Fitz's team will throw out the faded cupful of flowers, but they'll let anything so clearly set aside alone. The rest of the flowers I can easily replace – I'm _about_ to replace. These two, I intend to keep.

I slip my info screen into the pocket of my coat, and pull a shawl around my head and shoulders. It's only a short walk to the greenhouse, but it's also 8 AM on a gloomy mid-November day in the Scottish Highlands. I have learned all too well that at this time of year, Scotland is not a great deal warmer than a Skycity in the middle of the North-Atlantic, even taking our post-Apocalyptic atmospheric differences into account.

I briefly wonder how men used to stand it, wearing knee-length kilts all winter long. Particularly if what Jamie told me about their undergarments is true.

Or the lack thereof. . .

I make my way down the main corridor of the guest wing, through two long side hallways, past the kitchens and out, through to the kitchen gardens. The chill air seems to clear my head a little, though the bleak grey of the empty plots doesn't help my state of mind much. I'm nearly to the bare, still orchard, close to the end of the cobbled garden path, when the greenhouse finally becomes visible behind its enclosing wall of swaying evergreens. The trees are either pines or firs - or possibly spruces - I frankly don't know enough about them yet to be able to tell the difference. The two-week long unit on coniferous trees I took in school is a depressingly long number of years ago. But the dark brightness of their ageless green is a welcome sight, nevertheless.

I go through the little white-painted gate hung between two of their trunks, then push the greenhouse door open with my hip. My first breath of the warm, plant-scented, softly damp air inside never ceases to take me by surprise, no matter how many times I come out here. I never expected anything in this time period to be so intensely identical to something I had encountered nearly every day on Skycity 15. It may be floored with raked gravel instead of polished metal, the trays might be filled with soil instead of growing medium, the great vats of water are missing, and the long rows of mostly ornamental plants and flowers here bear little resemblance to the essential staple crops we grow on Skycity 15, but Castle Leoch's greenhouse still smells exactly like my old farming station, and I love it.

A strange feeling of _home_ creeps up my spine, sparking a vague, poignant memory – one far more distant than the events of last night, but nevertheless related to them. . .

I shiver a bit, then shake it off. I'm here for flowers.

I clip a few clusters of red salvia, and some long-stemmed orange and purple gazanias, arranging each one in my steel bottle as I pick them. I realize this is the first time I've arranged the flowers directly in it, and not in the smaller cup that was such an effective decoy. I wonder for a moment what Jamie has done with the cameras, but then I shake my head. It's far better that I do not know.

I select a few white caladium leaves, veined with striking dark green, and then make my way down and across several rows, to where the ferns are growing. I cut some lacy fronds, and one or two long fiddle-head shaped buds, just unfurling from their green nests.

I had never seen a real fern until I discovered this greenhouse. That was my fourth day here.

It feels like several lifetimes ago.

I fill my bottle with water from the plumbed-in spigot on the side wall, and drop in a little plant food tablet from the box of them beside the water station.

For a moment I consider looking for the special room where they grow strawberries, but then I think better of it. I have more important things to do than daydream about Jamie. Which is all I would do if I found it, I have no doubt at all. . .

I'm halfway back to the house when I round the corner of the garden walk, and almost run straight into Annie.

"Miss Claire!" she says, sounding both pleased and surprised, "I was hopin' tae see ye, bu' no' oot heer now, aye?"

"No," I manage a polite nod, "Of course not. And it's good to see you too."

"Aye," she grins, "Bu' I might as well ask ye now. . ." She looks around hastily, then leans forward, whispering conspiratorially, "Are ye free this upcomin' Fraeday?"

"I. . . can be," I say, amused.

"Good," she grips my upper arms in triumph, "Thear's four o' us girls goin' oot tae Cranesmuir fer our day off, an' we'd like ye tae join us. Will ye?"

I can't help but nod assent, charmed, as I always am by this girl's unabashed and cheerful generosity.

She claps her hands, "Ah, tha's grand! Wee'l mak a proper day ov et!" Then she points urgently towards the greenhouse, "I _mus_ ' go nae, sorrae – Mrs. Fitz wants flowers enough for twentae guest rooms, an' shee'll skelp me iff'n I tarry." She hefts the empty basket she's carrying, "We'er right lucky ye prefer tae pick yer oon, aye?"

I grip my bottle a little tighter, "If you want to call it luck. . ."

Annie laughs delightedly at this, and then skips hurriedly down the path, trailing a waving hand behind herself as she calls out, "See ye Fraeday, then!" before disappearing around the bend.

She's gone for quite a few seconds before I realize I'm smiling. It's the first time I've done so this morning. But then, Annie always perks me up. It's impossible to be gloomy around her, no matter how ugly the day is. I'm still smiling as I go back indoors, and begin to find my way to the library. A short interlude with flowers, in a greenhouse that smells like home, and a visit with Annie, no matter how brief, has done worlds of good for my mood.

Miraculously, the library is right where I left it last week, at the corner this wing makes with the main body of the house. I slip in through one of the smaller side doors, preferring not to attempt to open the massive double-leaved main door that leads directly in from the main corridor. At this time of the morning last week, it was still locked.

My little side door is open, however, and as I step in, a strange, eerie peace settles in the pit of my stomach.

It is a large room, two stories tall, with a sort of mezzanine level running like a balcony around the middle. The floor and walls are of bright golden panels of wood, and the whole space is lined with row upon row of the same kind of strange-smelling paper books that Lamb reverenced so much. A fleet of sliding ladders grant access to every shelf, and tables, lamps, chairs and sofas of every type and description fill the vast majority of the rest of the room.

I am suddenly overcome with how silent it is in here. It is a kind of silence both magical and somehow physical, full of thought and memory so deep it might get into your blood. The kind of silence that renders it impossible to care about ugly grey days.

On a day like today, I couldn't have asked for a better refuge.

Maybe now I can do something about the chaos in my mind. . .

I choose a small table that's neatly slotted into a window embrasure, and settle myself comfortably onto the bench beside it. I set up a small info screen stand, put my screen into it, power it up, engage the security shields I've devised, and shadow-connect to a local network I discovered yesterday. A few more keystrokes, and I have a search window open that I'm more than reasonably certain isn't being spied on.

I stare at it for at least a full minute before I manage to think where I can possibly start. . .

Slowly, I type into the search field - "sky boat song".

Whatever power ruled last night's events, it was most often manifested in the music, and the music had started there.

The search comes back as "Skye Boat song" and it is followed by thousands of hits for lyrics, videos, and audio files. I select a text file that purports to discuss the three main versions of the lyrics, open it, and begin to read.

Not five minutes later, and the placid, yet eerie feeling in my stomach has shattered into a completely unexpected full-bore panic attack. I dig my hands into my hair, wildly trying not to hyperventilate.

How?

 _How_?

The song is about the aftermath of Culloden, and I simply cannot believe it.

Everything, _everything_ , seems to come back, somehow, to Culloden. _I_ always seem to come back to Culloden. Again and again I end up there, cold and alone, on that terrible, cursed, _haunted_ moor! There is no escape, none at all, for me – neither through the Stones, nor to the Isle of Skye, nor even into death. . .

I wrench my hands free of my head, and grip the edge of the table, desperately attempting to calm myself. Be sensible, Beauchamp! I have only been to Culloden once, and this is not what I felt then. I do not have to go back. . .

Back to Culloden bloody moor. . .

Why?

Why am I so afraid of that idea?

And why can I _remember_ being there, time and time and time again, with a copper-golden light shining all around me, my hands red-stained and terrible?

 _Sorcha_.

My name is Red Sorcha. . .

I stare at the wood grain on the table in front of me, wide-eyed and sightless.

 _WHAT_. . . ?

None of this is what I felt when I heard the song last night. So where are any of these feelings coming from? I decide I don't care. I banish the memories as best I can, behind a thick glass wall in my mind.

I can still see them, I won't forget - but they are removed from the many noises currently clamouring in my brain.

Slowly, I manage to get my breathing under control.

I'm still hung-over. That must be it. My brain is remembering snatches of alcohol-induced dreams, and connecting them to the things I know will happen here in a few years' time. That's all it is. That's all it can possibly be.

Right?

I turn back to my info screen, desperate for something prosaic to ground myself in. I type "Scottish Clan restoration act", and open the first result that comes back.

I'm halfway through the long and very wordy article before my heartbeat slows, and I feel at all like myself again. And even then it takes another half-dozen verbose and very dully-written paragraphs for me to realize I haven't taken in a single word of this article at all. I close the window and open a new one from the second search result.

This one is much better, with a far more comprehensible timeline, tracing Scotland's current political situation back almost fifty years, to the wildly unexpected popularity of the Scottish Languages Preservation Initiative.

It was then, for the first time in modern history, that a law was passed which required all Scottish primary schools to teach Gàidhlig, and not only that, but the full range of Scotland's native languages as well, both local and national. Very naturally, this had necessitated hiring a large number of supplemental teachers who could effectively impart such a curriculum, and spreading them across the country. This had lead to a small but highly significant immigration boom, bringing in all manner of people from New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the United States, South Africa, England, Wales, Ireland, and several other places. If they knew Gàidhlig, and could teach, they were welcome.

I realize this is at least part of the reason why each Scottish accent I've encountered here is so different from every other, not to mention inconsistent within itself, and so often using what even I can recognize are borrowed colloquialisms and slang. Not only are there many individuals here from all over the world, it's likely all of them were _taught_ by people from all over the world. Add in that Scottish English is a highly flexible dialect to begin with, and it's no wonder the maze of regional accents have become jumbled and even more confusing than they were historically.

It's a lot like what happened on Skycities – with the citizens of each Township fostering their own unique identity, even while most people stand solid for their own whole City as well. New Oxford is one of the more diverse Cities, which is very lucky for me, since it means I grew up hearing several accents at least somewhat related to the ones I've encountered both here, and on Cold Island 12.

Hearing them straight from the source is highly different, of course, much like the difference between reading a sentence, and having to speak it aloud.

I smile grimly to myself. And Colum had the cheek to tell me I sounded American! Well, perhaps I do, but there's a very good chance that more than a few of his relatives sound a little bit _English_ , as well.

And speaking of sounding English. . .

I check on the progress of my forged birth certificate. Apparently it is still being "processed" - whatever that means - and will not be mailed for several days yet. But it has not been flagged as suspicious, or unofficial, or anything like that, so I assume most of my constructed background history has held up so far.

I seriously consider my forged paper trail for nearly half an hour, trying to discover if I need to shore up some part or another, or if it would be wise to add anything to it.

Eventually, I settle on looking up the names Beauchamp, Moriston and FitzSimmonds, so I might have a stronger concept of my ancestry, if and when I am called upon to defend it again.

What I find on one particular site draws the day's first laugh out of me.

If ever Colum casts my heritage up to me again, Jesus H. Roosevelt _Christ_ do I have a comeback for him!

I stay on the site for quite a while, discovering several extremely relevant and useful things about a much higher number of Scottish Clans than I ever could have expected. . . and something very interesting about Clan Fraser in particular.

From there, it's a logical step to find out as much as I can about official Clan Gatherings. Yule is about a month and a half away. Clan MacKenzie is having a Gathering then, and, from what the next site I bring up tells me, I assume an Oath Taking will happen as well.

Best to be prepared, in any case. To know what I might expect.

This brings my mind back around to Jamie, and, annoyingly, Dougal.

If a Clan MacKenzie Gathering is anything like the ones I'm reading about, then Dougal will play a highly significant role in the proceedings, and, very probably, Jamie can't be there at all.

Either way, I'll only have until then to execute an offensive against Dougal, since the next site I go to states that November and December are low-key "local" months in the ongoing Independent Scottish Council races.

I suppose in normal Human speech that means all the candidates have been given two months off for Christmas. . .

But according to this published itinerary, immediately after New Year's – and finally I learn what Jamie meant by Hogmanay – it's right back to the campaign trail for ten weeks of hard-selling speeches and debates, leading up to the elections in late March.

Dougal will be traveling all over his constituency then, far out of my reach.

So it's now or never if I'm going to follow though on this war of ours.

The glaring problem being – I have no idea what offensive I want to wage. I'm not even sure what sort of offensive I _can_ wage successfully. My difficulty isn't resources – not anymore. The difficulty is that I don't _want_ to fight him. If it was only me in the balance now, I very likely wouldn't go on the offensive at all. But now, there's Jamie to think of too. My battling Dougal is, without a doubt, the only way I have to free Jamie from whatever claws Dougal has in him. But I still need Dougal to be my ally, eventually, if I'm going to attempt to right more than one wrong while I'm here. And so I must find a way to fight him, to defeat him so soundly that he no longer wants to be at war with me, and yet, somehow, leave the door open for truce, and even perhaps friendship, one day.

Which is a _huge_ problem, because at the moment, I'm fairly certain Dougal could cheerfully have me publicly drawn and quartered. . .

I get up, and walk around the room for a bit.

Very quickly, I realize that Lamb's library, much as it had impressed me, was mere child's play when compared to what is on offer here at Leoch.

Even a superficial survey of the just this first floor reveals that if Jamie hadn't given me an info screen, I probably would have been able to find all the information I needed anyway, had I time and industry enough, for here is an entire wall of shelves given over to periodicals – daily, weekly, and monthly. The quick scan I give them shows them to be an impressive variety of publications, from news and current affairs, to history, to geography, to science, to modern art, all perfectly organized, and very neatly arranged.

I am doubly thankful for Jamie's thoughtfulness, though – having an info screen has saved me days, perhaps _weeks_ of time.

But it is good to know that such a variety of hard-copy periodicals still exist in this time – not just pinup car magazines. . .

The next set of shelves is full of reference books – encyclopedias and dictionaries of every sort. I select a large illustrated treatise on botany that looks both useful and fascinating.

The rest of this wall of shelves is given over to other non-fiction – history and science, biographies and religion. I'm particularly impressed by the collection of Bibles. One especially, under a glass case on a stand by itself, is notable, both for its age and ornamentation. It's an old MacKenzie family Bible, open to the genealogy lists that show Colum and Dougal's ancestry back at least three generations. And that's just the two pages visible. By the hand-inked numbers in the corners, there are at least a dozen more similar pages.

I sigh as I turn away, touched, for some reason I can't explain.

The rest of the main shelves on this level – and, by the looks of things, most of the smaller bookshelves scattered about as well – are filled with novels. Mostly classics, from what I can see, but there are a good amount of dramas, mysteries, romances, fantasy and science-fiction scattered amongst them all, too. There's even one whole corner filled with children's books.

I come away from that section bearing a book called "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", which I picked up purely on a whim, but the synopsis on the back cover fascinated me.

A story about a girl who accidentally gets into a colourful world she never could have expected? That sounds like a book I'd like to read, regardless of its target audience.

I spend nearly an hour skimming over the rest of the novels on this floor, quite unashamed of my interest, given that I've done so little for pure entertainment lately. Even my date with Jamie last night was specifically for the purpose of introducing me to the wider population here at Leoch. . .

Three books make it onto the pile I eventually take back to my little table - "The Prisoner of Zenda", "The Enchanted April", and "A Town Like Alice". I'm unsure if I'll like any of them, but I figure giving them a try can't possibly hurt.

I'm just settling back down at my table again, when I hear a buzzing sort of clamour outside the window nearest me. I get up to look, too curious to let it pass, and I see what looks like an enormous flying insect, zig-zagging over the ornamental gardens on this side of the house. But, it's clearly not a living thing.

I've never seen one this shape and size, but it's obviously a drone.

A bellowing cheer of many voices call out, and a small multitude of children scramble down the garden's neat pathways in pursuit of the humming, whirling thing. I smile as they disturb the neatly raked gravel paths in their enthusiasm, bringing interest and joy to a scene that was almost impossibly dull before they arrived.

And then, off to the side, I see Rupert, holding a small radio-controller, grinning as he leads the children on their merry chase.

My smile freezes, but only for a moment. My feelings about Rupert have softened considerably, especially given his unexpected allyship with me last night. He's graduated up from being one of my watch dogs, to being an almost welcome _guard_ dog. And as he plays with these kids, calling out cheerfully to them, and laughing at their shouted responses, I can't help chuckling a little to myself, remembering his similar complete abandon when he raised his glass in what has almost become his catch-phrase whenever I think of him - "At least suck _hard_!"

Wha-am!

Another set of memories from last night barrel into me with such a shock, I stagger back from the window.

Angus, Gil and I, shouting that phrase and many other innuendos, making long strings of horrifically lame rhymes with them, trading insults like handshakes, and laughing maniacally every time a shot lands. . .

I stumble back to my seat, and put my head in my hands.

Jamie hoisting me over his shoulder to the sound of much cheering, our long, protest-laden walk back to my room, the thorough embarrassment I made of myself before I remembered where I'd put my room key. . .

Key.

Lock. . .

 _Oh_.

 _That's_ why those words sounded familiar.

I smile a bit, with the knowledge just how sweet Jamie really is, even when completely smashed.

His warm hands, his casual strength, his insistence on taking care of me. . .

My smile fades. Oh god.

His _hands_. . .

I remember, with perfect clarity, boldly coming on to him, and suggestively licking his fingers. . .

My face blazes hot with shame. Not over what I did, but that it might have offended him. And this morning while talking with him, I was so quick to assume he might have offended _me_ , I gave not a thought to the fact that things might be the other way around.

I owe him an apology. Whether he was offended or not.

Then, finally, my brain is kind to me, letting me remember how nicely he fit beside me in bed, how warm and comforting his presence was, and how good I found it to hear his breathing in the middle of the night. I've slept alone for so long, I'd nearly forgotten just how much I love having another person in my bed.

And then, like turning a page of one of these paper-made books, a different memory comes clear to me.

Jamie, standing in my room at the manse on Cold Island 12, claiming me with his mouth. . .

 _Jamie_ was the one I dreamed of, the night before I came through the stones!

Yet another lightning flash arcs through my mind, and I remember the dark, faceless silhouette I saw a month ago on Skycity 15. That strange figure, so near and yet so distant, that I was so sure was staring at my tent. The figure I had dismissed as a dream, brought on by an electrical storm.

That was the first night I had dreamt of trees, mist and stones, of winds and one lone star to guide me home. . .

Home. . .

Was _that_ Jamie too?

I don't know quite how to take any of this on board. I like Jamie, a lot. I trust him, and he's very dear to me. Last night hasn't changed my desire to date him, not in the slightest, but what can these dreams possibly mean? Dreaming of him _after_ I met him, yes, that makes sense. But before?

I shake my head. Today was supposed to be about straightening things out, not making things more confusing.

With a sigh, I turn back to my info screen again. I look up what a skunk is, the current meaning of gay, what a swimming pool is for, what television is, what calves are, what tablet is made of, and what ingredients go into a daiquiri.

That answers most of my definition questions for the moment, except for the names that Jamie called me while he couldn't say Sassenach – mo grai and mo hrea and mo kneein doown.

He has called me all those things before, but not as frequently as he did last night.

And Sorcha. He also calls me Sorcha. . .

I shiver a bit, and decide he can keep his secrets for now. I think I'll be much happier not knowing what his names for me really mean.

Or, at least much _calmer_.

So I move on to looking up some information on how to build a contemporary info screen. I still have all those parts in the manager's barn, after all, and it might be a good idea to have a functional backup computer.

Only then do I discover that when Jamie had talked to me about computers, the term he'd used was "com" - with only one m - and not "comm" with two m's like I'm used to. Apparently his term is short for "combination" - as in, a combination of a touch-screen computer and an earbud communicator – while my term "comm" is an abbreviation for "communication" and only refers to the earbud part.

This doesn't quite explain why Dougal had a fully integrated com the night I first arrived here, seeing as the articles I've brought up all concur that such integration is totally outdated, but it is a step on the way.

I promise myself, I _will_ understand what's going on in this house.

There's no other way I'll be able to truly change things for the better.

A sound from the corridor draws my attention away from my info screen. It sounds as though someone is unlocking the main doors. . .

With a heavy click and a creaking groan, both leaves of the door swing wide. I hear the light scraping sound of two small wedge doorstops being placed. When the person doing all this finally steps fully into the room, I blink at them, surprised. It's Letitia. I would not have thought unlocking the library would be among her particular duties. But, here we are.

I stand, and respectfully incline my head to her.

The look she gives me in response is quite a study. She is more than one kind of surprised, not entirely pleased, and deeply _determined_ at finding me here.

"A verrah good mornin' tae ye, Mrs. Beauchamp," she says, nodding sharply.

"Good morning."

"I see ye've found my favaroute refuge from Mrs. Fitz on cleaning days, aye?"

That brings me up short. It never occurred to me that the Lady of the house could possibly share any feelings in common with me, especially not when it comes to something like this. But, I suppose it ought to have. It must be strange, to be married to the Laird, and still not be the one in charge of your own home. After all, Mrs. Fitz, good, generous soul that she is, is still one of the most imposing, authoritative people I've ever met, manifestly in charge of every bit of her domain.

So, where does that leave Letitia?

In the library, apparently. . .

"Yes, it seems I have. I'll go if you want to be alone. . ."

"Nae nae," she waves for me to sit, and settles herself on a sofa not too far from my table, "I've been wantin' tae speak tae ye, anyroad."

"Have you?"

"Aye."

But she doesn't say anything for a long minute or two, instead regarding the wood grain on the boards of the floor as though she can read her own history in them.

And perhaps she can. . .

Seen this close to, and in this context, Letitia is much prettier than I first thought her, with an elegant mouth and sweetly pointed chin, well set up when it comes to arms and legs, and not at all ignorant of any of these facts.

I'm sure she isn't all that much older than me either – ten years maybe, and very possibly less than that. But by the look on her face just now, she might as well be a hundred. . .

"I see ye're. . . doin' some research?" she says, finally.

I blink before nodding, a touch more bluntly than I mean to. Of all the unexpected questions. . .

"Yes. I am."

"An' I heard ye say ye were a botanist – that furst night, aye?"

"Yes."

"An' that ye ken the ways of CRISpRs."

"Certain kinds of them, yes. . ."

Where is she going with this?

"And ye heard Dougal tell why my husband doesnae trust them, aye?"

"Yes, but-"

"Weel _I_ think it may be in yer oon good interest tae look up British Vaccine number-" and here she rattles off a long ID that I tap into my search field out of pure Pavlovian response, " _Jus'_ tae see iff'n et may help ye around t'farm. Aye?"

The search results come back, and they have nothing to do with botany, farming, or CRISpRs.

The first result is for a national registry of vaccine-related reactions and illnesses. . .

I click through to the site, and find myself looking at a nearly sixty year old survey list of thirty pregnant women who received an experimental broad spectrum vaccine. It was especially formulated for pregnant women, and a comprehensive list of their symptoms and reactions are listed.

All reported joint pains, a low fever, mild dizziness and nausea, and headaches.

Three women reported an unsightly skin eruption that healed in a week or so, fifteen reported coughs and sneezes consistent with a normal vaccine reaction, and five had minor itching at the injection site.

All of the women recovered, and survived.

All of the children were born normally, and all were reported healthy, except two. The first had a mild deformation of his finger and toe nails, which is listed as _possibly_ being vaccine related, but highly unlikely.

The other was born with Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome, which is listed as strictly genetic and unrelated.

Unrelated.

I close the site window, and sit back to think.

That Colum blames modern medicine for his condition is perhaps understandable – anyone who has lived as long as he has with such an illness can easily become bitter, and lashing out at what seems to be the culprit is quite normal, as far as I can see. That he continues to blame the wrong culprit even when the real reason is extant doesn't baffle me either – it's always easier to lash out than it is to take responsibility. That he refuses to attempt a possible cure is beyond me, but then, preconceived notions and stubbornness can and have fostered even more unreasonable beliefs in better men than Colum Mackenzie.

But that _Dougal_ fosters this belief in his brother, to the point that he states it as fact to someone like me – a complete outsider – is quite unbelievable, and highly suspicious.

If Letitia knows the vaccine ID number off by heart, then there's no way Dougal is ignorant of the real reason for Colum's illness. And if there is anyone Colum would listen to on this matter, it's Dougal, I have no doubt.

And that means. . .

He is letting Colum live in ignorance. He is letting the disease take its course.

He is letting him die.

Dougal loves his brother. I'm absolutely certain of that.

But, perhaps he hates him too.

Is there a difference between not doing everything in your power to save someone, and outright murder? I'm not certain there always is. And in this case, Dougal has every reason to allow his brother's stubbornness to run its course – right into his early grave.

Does he want the Lairdship that much? Has he truly gone that far?

That Letitia herself has come to me – me, of all people! - about this matter, and has imparted it with such cool, deliberate assurance, tells me he does, and he has.

What she thinks I can do with this information, I don't know, but that she so deeply wanted me informed of it at all is reason enough for me to take it deathly seriously.

"Well," I say, slowly, "Th-"

"Dinnae thank me," Letitia says, sharply.

I blink, and fall silent.

"As one woman tae another, ye ken how it is." Her jaw juts out a bit, and I see a stubbornness in her eyes that far outweighs anything Colum and Dougal combined could ever manage, "There are times that duty, honour and an' e'en justice fall away when it comes tae the demands of love." She pulls herself bolt upright, and looks me boldly in the face, "An whate'er ye may think o' me and what I ha'e done, know this – I love my husband, Mrs. Beauchamp. 'Til death do us part."

For some reason, I am sure she knows about Dougal and Geillis.

"And, by the same token, you love his son."

I say it quite forthrightly. A thread of tension in her jaw relaxes.

"Aye. Wi' all my heart."

I nod. There is only a very little more that need be said.

"There is one thing I _must_ thank you for, Mrs. Mackenzie."

"Oh, aye? An' what's that then?"

"For not hating me."

She smiles, grimly, "Dinnae fash. If I hated every woman who had somethin' I wanted, I'd ha'e verrah few friends left," she nods at me, intently solemn, "Good day, Mrs. Beauchamp."

And with that, Letitia leaves.

For a long while I sit there, and wonder. Is this what Leoch will always be to me? Interminable conflicts, full of impossible opponents and surprising allies? Am I doomed to be trapped in the endless cycle of intrigue here?

What can I _possibly_ have that Letitia wants?

Knowledge of CRISpRs technology?

Maybe. But I doubt it.

And then it strikes me.

She wants the power I have over Dougal.

Or, maybe, just power, period.

Because, as odd as it is to realize, of the three of us – Geillis, Letitia, and I – it is Letitia who has had the least choice in all of this to-do with Dougal. The least choice, and possibly the most to lose. Certainly the least to gain, no matter how things end up going.

Whatever I plan to do next, it is shocking to me just how much I suddenly want to protect her. This woman I barely know, and upon whose hospitality I unquestionably depend, is also in the palm of my hand. From the moment I begin my offensive, her future will be as I will it. She, and all of this household, from Hamish to Annie, to Lily Bara, to the farm hands I haven't met yet – all will be my responsibility.

A responsibility Dougal is clearly not inclined to take up, no matter if he manages to usurp the Chieftain title from his brother or not.

I used to think Dougal was a leader, and merely thwarted in his attempts to lead. But, in fact, there is far more going on here than that. He is a manipulator. A con man. A _user_. Not an irredeemable one, I fervently hope, but that's where he is now, and that is how I must treat with him for the foreseeable future.

And the only language a manipulator understands is more manipulation.

Huh. Now, _there's_ an idea.

All at once, a battle plan appears in my head. It's quite vague and formless as yet, but with some very definite possibilities. I'll need help to carry it out, of course, but suddenly my war with Dougal seems far more manageable. Looking a few steps ahead, I can even see myself winning, if everything goes to plan.

Which it won't, but still. . .

I close down my info screen, pick up my books and my bottle of flowers, and slowly walk back to my freshly cleaned rooms.

Whatever choices she has made, and whatever she has become because of them, in the end, it is still the Letitias of this world that matter. The faceless, nameless forgotten of history, who always end up paying the price when warriors and heroes take the stage. It is the great body of Humanity that is important, not the flashy, fancy outliers – the eyelashes and fingernails amongst us. It is the skin, bones and blood, farm hands, Core-huggers, kitchen staff and garbagemen that are what life is about, and too often their safety and needs are casually brushed aside for the sake of duty, honour, glory, and yes, justice. But any justice that refuses to take into account the common, everyday person, with their common everyday lives, is no justice at all.

I'm arranging my new books on a shelf in the sitting room when Jamie appears outside my open door.

"Ah, there ye are, Sassenach," he calls, cheerfully, "We'er well gathered for the shinty match, an' if ye dinnae come now, they'll start wi'out ye!"

I go out to him, closing and locking the door behind me.

"Well," I say, halfway smiling, "We can't have that, now can we?"


	37. All That Was Fair

The field the men have chosen for their shinty match is the wide grassy lawn in between the barn and the stables. I had never seen grass in person before my journey to Cold Island 12, but it was so common in the pictures and movies I grew up with that I _did_ think I must have some idea what large expanses of it would be like. And yet, instead of the bright, warm green I saw with Lamb, and the darkly bruised, newly frozen green I saw in those first few days here at Leoch, this field is a bleached, frostbitten brown that can mean nothing but the approach of winter, with the stems all thin and spiky and chill. This really shouldn't be a shock to me – there are at least a dozen patches of grass on the route between my rooms and the Manager's Barn, and there must be hundreds more out among the arable fields. But I suppose those have not registered as "grass" to me – my mind, being so busy with other things, must have automatically categorized them as "untidy deck plating" or something of that kind.

Living this closely with the seasons is a strange thing. Or rather – living this closely with the _consequences_ of the seasons is strange to me. Interesting, but oftentimes inconvenient.

The advantages of this field for a game of sport are obvious, however. The expanse of it takes up almost the full distance between the sprawling stables and enormous barn – eighty or ninety meters, it looks like. There's only one fence to think about, and even that is the full width of the field away, what I judge to be about thirty or forty meters, at least. The large buildings, with all their attendant workshops and and storage rooms, look like quite effective windbreaks, and besides all that, if I was one of the farming staff working on a Saturday, I know I'd be thankful for such a handy excuse to extend my morning tea break. . .

Jamie leaves me with a large knot of observers clustered around the corner of the playing field nearest the barn, and sprints away to join his team. The boundaries of the field are marked with wide white chalk lines, large arcs marking the corners, and a huge circle in the center. Somewhere among the flurry of explanations I received last night, I'm pretty sure someone said the middle circle is where the game will start. I think. I shiver a bit. Good windbreaks or no, the buildings can't protect me from how cold it is out here. I tuck my hands under my arms, in a vain attempt to keep them warm.

Down the field, Jamie's team is gathered next to a tall cage-like contraption standing on the far edge of the marked rectangle. I assume that is one of the goal nets. All of the men there are wearing kilts, just as Jamie is, but at this distance I can only make out a few of the various colours, and none of the patterns. Only a few meters from us, the second team is huddled around a similar net, and they are also wearing kilts in a wide spectrum of colours, but these all have the hip-cape feature that Jamie's did last night. Clearly these are the "belted plaids", and Jamie's team is the "modern kilts".

As the teams prepare, several clusters of observers begin to form – five or six larger groups near the corners, and a few dozen more strung out in ones or twos all along the length of the field. A surprising number of people come out of the barn and other outbuildings to join us, far more than I expected. As it turns out, a game of shinty is more interesting than anything else they have planned for this time of day. I have to agree.

I find myself standing next to Harry and Geordie, and I let their eager chatting about game strategy help to distract me from the sudden hot stink of coffee that appears along with these new observers. Apparently, coffee is a far more common tea break drink than tea itself among this section of the farm hands. . . The smell irritates the last vestiges of my hangover, and I raise a hand to try and smooth away my still mildly twinging headache before the game starts. Geordie grins when he notices my wrinkled nose, and pours me a cup of something steamy from the thermos he's holding.

"Et's a hot chocolate kinda day, aye?"

"That it most certainly is," I sigh as I take a sip, immeasurably thankful for my kind and thoughtful assistant.

"Perfect day fer a nice, cozy, friendly game of shinty, eh?" says Harry.

I snicker a little, "Cozy? There's a bit too much open space around here for that, I think."

And from the no-nonsense way all the players are gearing up by swinging around their caman-sticks, I'm not entirely sure about the 'friendly' part of that either. There was a great deal of talk about "hit-ins" and "tackling" last night, and I must admit, I'm feeling just a touch apprehensive about words like that at the moment.

"Agch, this field isnae even half regulation size, lassie," Harry says, with a mild mixture of teasing and reproof.

"Oh no?"

"Nae. We dinnae have room fer a full-size field here, no' wi'out cuttin' inta the pastures," he gestures expansively towards the fence, "An' e'en then, the ground's tae rough in that direction. T'would need tae be graded, an' who's gonna go tae those lengths for a game of shinty?"

"Ah," I say, vaguely, "So, this field will do?"

"Aye, it'll serve," he shrugs, "Allus has befoor."

Geordie nods in agreement, and they go back to discussing game strategy.

I take a long, slow look around me, marveling once again at the feeling of the earth and air in this place and time. Even half a November deep into the enclosing frosts of late autumn, I cannot help but notice how _alive_ everything is. How much bigger and airier, freer and more open even this mere patch of grass is than any place on a Skycity, even compared to the Rim. . .

I take another sip of my hot chocolate. On Skycity 15, a cold, grey day like this would feel oppressive, barren, even hostile. But it doesn't seem to matter in the least to the great swells of chattering, murmuring, exulting lives surrounding me. The sounds of a working farmyard – engines, power tools, brooms, buckets and boots – make a clattering, clanging backdrop, and beyond our small crowd of observers, I can hear a great many animal noises, not all of them recognizable to me.

So much _life_. And I am in the middle of it.

Then, a whiff of strange-smelling burning reaches me. It has a resinous odor similar to the wood fires I've encountered indoors, but it is also overlaid with a darker, more food-like smell. Only it doesn't smell like any food I've ever encountered. I wrinkle up my forehead in confusion. The closest thing I have to compare it to is the sickly-sweet stench that comes from a sugar refinery's vats while they're processing beets, and even that is only very vaguely similar.

Geordie notices my expression again, and shrugs before jerking a thumb in the direction of the far end of the farm yard, "Agch. 'Tis jus' Marc boilin' up some pig feed, ye ken. Dinnae fash."

"Oh," I smile at him, and am about to ask if that's usually a part of the Stock Manager's duties when there's a whistle and a cheering call from the middle of the field. The two teams are ranged around the central circle, Alain and Jamie have their caman-sticks raised and crossed like swords above their heads, and Angus is holding a small ball up in the air, and a whistle between his teeth.

He tosses the ball up in the air, and gives a short, sharp whistle. Then there is a flurry of arms and legs mixed with the thumping clatter of sticks and boots, and the game is underway.

It is instantly apparent that this is a much more physical game than I expected. Though perhaps I should have, given how exuberantly everyone was explaining it last night. The caman-sticks, far from being just the implements used to hit the ball, are also used to slap other players legs, and hook their ankles. A tackle really _is_ a tackle – two bodies ramming together, shoulder to shoulder. I see nearly every player get bowled off their feet at least once, in just the first few minutes. I cringe almost every time it happens. Harry just shakes his head at me.

And it's all in pursuit of a tiny ball that's almost the exact same colour as the grass. I quickly decide that if I want to stay sane, I'll watch the players, not the ball. One by one, I pick out the faces that I know. Gwyllyn's is the closest, playing as the goalkeeper for the belted-plaids – Alain's team. Gil's is the furthest away, as the goalkeeper for the modern kilts – Jamie's team. Leo, Willie, Gerald and Edan's positions shift with the action. Angus and Rupert are refereeing, and I recognize Gav MaQuarie, the Cuckoos' drummer, three or four of the other musicians, and at least a half dozen other faces from last night as well.

For the first little while, it looks like the belted-plaids have the advantage, pressing the attack down by the modern kilt's goal. I see Gil dart back and forth, and hear the caman-sticks clatter, but I can't tell what's going on until a cheer goes up from the crowd at that end of the field.

"What happened?" I ask Harry.

"Goal," he shrugs and gestures in explanation, "Edan got past Ollie tae set it up, an' Jerry made the shot."

"That didn't take long."

"Aye, weel, we'll get et back, dinnae fash."

I grin as I see Jamie barreling up the field, driving the ball before him.

"I won't."

For close to an hour, the teams run back and forth, getting into scrums and chasing each other up and down the field. There's a pause every now and then, for a penalty shot or a hit-in, but apparently there is to be no substantial time out until the half-time break.

We're nearly there, the score tied at three-all, when Leo and Jamie set up a fast, brilliant shot – or at least it looks so to me – and Willie takes it, slapping the ball in from the side, surprising Gwyllyn mightily. And then miraculously, Gwyllyn blocks it.

I cheer anyway, appreciating two plays that even I know were both beautifully executed.

Now the belted-plaids have the ball again, and everyone sprints down the field once more.

Harry is staring at me, and I see Geordie suppressing a grin at his friend's discomfort. We've had enough friendly chats in the lab that Geordie knows how I hate being partisan when it comes to well played sports. Harry is still in the dark.

"I. . . dinnae think ye ken how this game works, lassie. . ." he says, shaking his head.

I laugh, "Sure I do. It's just like all sports. A whole bunch of people you like gather in one place to do a thing you like watching. It's like a movie, only you don't know the ending."

He blinks at me, unbelieving, "An' would ye go and cheer fer the villain then?"

"Why not? Don't villains usually get the best lines? And Gwyllyn isn't the villain here anyway."

"Oh? Then who is?"

"Not who. What."

Geordie knows what's coming, and snorts a half-laugh. Harry gives him a disgusted look, but he only shrugs.

"Och, aye?"

"Yes," I say, drawing out the moment, "It's the rules."

"The. . . rules. . ."

I nod, "Yes. The rules are the villain. Or at least the opponent." I pause to watch Jamie give a tremendous over-the-head wallop to a hit-in, sending the ball at least two thirds of the way up the field before anyone can corral it. "The good players know how to bend the rules, the bad players can only break them."

"But then. . ." Harry's mind turns rapidly, and he takes the new idea more nimbly than might have been expected of him, "Who c'n be the hearo? Who c'n _evar_ be the hearo?"

"Oh, that's easy. The one who changes the game."

He blinks, and shakes his head, turning back to Geordie - who can barely keep his snickering under wraps, "Can ye evan believe this drivel?"

Geordie finally lets himself laugh at Harry's reaction, "Funny sort of drivel that makes ye _think_ , though, isn't et?"

"An' is a bit o' shinty on a Saturday mornin' _really_ the time fer a philosophy lesson?"

I plant my hands on my hips, suppressing my own laughter, "All I did was cheer for Gwyllyn, Harry. He made a good play, and I cheered him for it. That's all that happened. You want to start dictating what my reactions should be to things and you've stepped _way_ into my personal space. Which means you'll play by _my_ rules, for as long as you're there. Are we clear?"

He chuckles at himself and punches my arm companionably, "Awright, awright, lesson learnt. Schoolmarm!"

He winks at me, and turns his attention back to the game.

This half is winding down, and there is no more scoring for the final few minutes of it.

As Rupert sounds the half-time break, Tory drives up in a runabout filled with bottles of water and fruit-flavoured electrolytes. It seems like barely two seconds later, and the entire modern-kilt team is surrounding our little group of observers, chattering and exulting, and draining Tory's runabout dry in record time.

"Did'ye see the goal I made, Miss Claire?" asks Willie, coming up eagerly to Geordie and me.

"I did," I take the bottle of lemonade flavoured sports drink he's handing out, "And I also saw how tough it is to get anything past Gwyllyn. You did well to score at all – being tied at three is quite an accomplishment."

Willie blushes, and turns to hand Harry a bottle as well, but it seems he's a few meters away, talking to Jamie. They're both back momentarily, however.

"Willie?" calls Jamie, "Ye did say ye wanted tae sit out the second half?"

"Aye," he nods.

"Right then, Har, ye'er in. Come get kitted out."

Both he and Jamie trot away to the small pile of game equipment piled behind the nearby goal net. I watch as they sort through the caman-sticks and shin-guards and helmets, my eyes resting fondly on Jamie's shaggy, wind-blown curls, and scoop-necked cotton tunic.

With a bit of a start, I realize that I actually haven't seen him without a shirt on yet. There hasn't been a reasonable opportunity for me to have done so, of course, but still, it suddenly seems a little odd that I've forged such a close connection with him, but still have so much of him to discover yet.

The only other person I've ever been this intimate with was Frank, and the morning after _he_ slept in my bed for the first time, I _certainly_ had seen him shirtless. . .

Angus gives a long, shrill whistle, indicating the end of the half-time break.

With calls, cheers, and a good bit of applause, the teams re-take the field, each one taking the opposite goal this time.

The second half starts off just like the first – with raised caman-sticks and a ball tossed in the air, followed by a clattering rush down the field.

Watching it all from behind the modern-kilt's defensive line is a bit different though. It's easy to see Gil is a top-notch goalkeeper, but I've picked up on how the overall strategy of the game works by now, and it's clear Gil is not the one calling the shots. While they were at the other end of the field, it was difficult for me to tell just who was in charge of this team, and so I had assumed it was Leo, given how he was talking about it last night, and that most of the first half plays I could see had him in a prominent role.

But now it's quite clear that Jamie is their leader. Unquestionably. He's the one calling out tactics and setting up defensive formations. He often goes in for crucial tackles himself - even if it means handing most of the scoring opportunities to someone else on his team. He's an excellent player, as far as I can see – quick, precise, and indefatigably tough – but he seldom plays all-out, and never for himself. Most of his energies seem to be focused on bringing out the absolute best in his team, and indeed, it shows. Even I can tell the belted-plaids have more experienced players on their side, but the modern-kilts have battled them to a draw, and I am beginning to think that is entirely down to Jamie's unflinching leadership and drive.

Dougal is absolutely right to be scared of what this man might do to him and his prospects of ever becoming Laird. Jamie was _born_ to be a leader. It comes utterly naturally to him – and men flock to his banner just as naturally.

And as for women. . .

There is a sharp discordance in the pattern of play down the field, as one of the belted-plaids is called back to the knot of observers near their goal-net, and a new player jogs onto the field.

His gait, his figure, his features, all are unmistakable. It's Dougal.

I see Jamie square his shoulders, and call out some modified tactics to his team. In the Gàidhlig this time, not English. And that's how I know this has suddenly gotten personal.

For the next quarter-hour, at least, Jamie plays all-out. He still has his team in the forefront of his mind, but he holds back nothing – not his speed, nor his strength, nor his determination. And Dougal may have years of experience on him, but Jamie has something sustaining him that I doubt Dougal has ever had in his life.

A team that respects the hell out of him.

The two of them are locked into a five-man scrum when I hear a clattering thud quite unlike the other game noises I've grown accustomed to.

"Tha' was a hack!" says Willie, indignantly, "Dougal hacked Jamie's caman! Why the hell didnae Angus call it?"

I'm unsure what hacking is in this context, but I _do_ know who Dougal is. . .

"You know why," I say, flatly.

Willie doesn't reply to that, but the ensuing silence is reply enough.

I see several words exchanged between Jamie and his uncle, but what they are I cannot tell, nor am I certain I want to.

Jamie hits the ball over to Harry, who tries to weave it in between three of the belted-plaids. It doesn't go well, and several of the modern-kilts run up to reinforce him.

Jamie has just managed to get the ball free again and pass it over to Leo when Dougal comes streaking in from the side. Quite deliberately, he barrels into Jamie, hard. Far, far too hard. . .

The force of it rockets them both out of bounds. . . and straight at me.

There is no chance to turn, hardly even a chance to register what is happening before Jamie crashes into me, full-force, plummeting me to the ground.

As I land, a great, lancing pain explodes from my shoulder, the air jolts from my lungs, and my brain shuts down. I don't think I faint, because the softly-mottled grey sky remains steady in front of my eyes, and my short, sharp, agonizing breaths still rattle in my ears, but everything else is gone. Blank.

I drift, a shredded wisp of cloud spread thin across the dark surface of space.

A red-gold orb and a silver tree grow from my hands, one heavy and burning, like a Skycity core, and the other tiny, delicate and ethereal, like something from a garden made for fairies. I walk down an ancient roadway, its grey, fitted cobbles covered in red and yellow lichen. The trees reach out to me, root and branch, to take me back into themselves, as though I am the offspring of a star and a dryad, left orphaned here by the turbulent mists of a distant nebula. I sit next to a round, clear pool of Stygian blue, surrounded by the sweet, green-earthen scent of thyme.

Two lanterns descend from the sky, glowing white-hot with a fury I do not share and cannot understand.

"Claire!" says the wind.

I breathe deep, and blink, for the first time in several eons. The lanterns hover over me, now burning bright cyan, like Blueblast bombs. . .

"Claire! I need ye here wi' me, lass!"

My vision collapses into cold, silver shards, and slips away like bits of ice driven before a keening wind. Jamie is looking down at me, deep concern darkening his face. I blink again.

"Wh. . . what. . . happened?"

"Yer shoulder's out o' joint, mo nighean," he says, with a voice somehow both steady and strange.

"Oh."

"Aye, an' I can put it back in, but I need tae reposition yer arm first."

"Okay."

"It will hurt, mo ghràidh, sae I need ye tae sit up."

I'm still floating somewhere far outside the realm of pain, but I slowly begin to stir, and try to sit up. As soon as I attempt to move my right arm, the mist I have become dissipates with the roaring, cursing shout I cannot keep from tearing out of my mouth.

"Aye, it's a bugger," says Jamie, his voice still strange, and still held bulkhead-steady, "Bu' this is the worst o' it now – it'll be bettar in a moment."

I push myself halfway up on my left arm, and immediately Jamie's hand comes out to steady me. I lean into his support with a gasp, and hold my right wrist to my chest, the screaming, throbbing pain in my shoulder rendering it quite unable to support the weight of my arm. Gently, Jamie replaces my hand on my wrist with his own, carefully manoeuvring me half out of my shirt, so he can see my shoulder while he works.

It is only then that I notice that both my coat and shirt are open, the cold November air raising rough chicken-flesh all over my skin. . .

"Alright. Look at me now, Claire." Jamie's voice is soft, but utterly insistent. I raise my head, and look him full in the face. His eyes are hooded, intense, and focused like I've never seen them.

"Good. Now breathe wi' me." He exaggeratedly takes a breath through his nose, and exhales through his mouth, "One." He does it again. "Two." And again. "Three. And relax."

I've caught on by now, and he counts our breaths again as he slowly manipulates my arm, his eyes never leaving mine, "One. Two. Three. Relax. One. Two. Three. Relax. One. Two. Thr-"

With a twisting wrench that nearly incinerates me with agony, and a bone-deep but also somehow _subtle_ clicking noise, my shoulder is back in its socket, the pain evaporates, and my mind is launched free from survival mode.

The relief is so great, and so sudden, that I start laughing hysterically, "It. . . it doesn't hurt anymore!" I slump against him, still laughing wildly, uncaring about the cold, or who might hear or see me.

"Aye, but it will, lass." Jamie wraps an arm around me, "Ye'll need something tae brace it until I can get ye a sling. . ." he reaches out to tap one of the pairs of legs surrounding us, "Rupert, lend us yer belt, lad."

I blink, and suddenly notice the large ring of backs surrounding and shielding us from public view. At least a dozen men, from the crowd and from both shinty teams, have clustered round me. Well, us.

I smile, and my heart swells with gratitude. These men. . .

"My _belt_?" echoes Rupert, incredulously.

"Aye, dinnae ask questions, just gi' the lady yer belt, aye?"

"Ov all t'things I've ne'er been asked afore. . ." he trails off into unintelligible grumbling, but eventually the long leather strap clatters down beside Jamie's knees. He promptly coils it around me, setting the loop of it so that all the weight of my arm is lifted up, and puts no tension on my shoulder.

"Now keep it as still as ye can, aye?" I nod. He zips up my coat without buttoning up my shirt, then helps me to stand, supporting me by my left arm, "We'll need tae get ye a sling, a pain-killer, and a topical muscle relaxant tae help wi'-"

A farm-hand runs up to our little group, panting urgently, "Come quick! Marc's fire caught the haystack by the stables! We need tae get t'horses oot in case t'stucture goes!"

The ring breaks up quickly, a score or so men running off to help immediately, and a great many more going for buckets and shovels from the barn. "Agch!" Jamie groans, "If et's no' one thing et's _ten_ things!"

I'm about to shoo him away from me, to tell him I'll be alright, that this obviously takes precedence, when a question suddenly comes to me, somehow overriding all of that.

"Wait!" I call out.

Everyone around me pauses mid-stride.

"Who won?"

The only answers I get are wide-eyed stares, and a chorus of incredulous laughter that is no answer at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found myself quite liking shinty while doing research for this chapter. It's a lot of fun to watch, and I got to be really invested in the players. It's definitely worth a look, if you're curious. 
> 
> Here is one of the games I watched - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJZUKG7z3Ew&t=122s


	38. In Love And War

The fire is almost entirely controlled by the time I make it across the yard. The sheer number of helpers practically guaranteed an effective response, I'm sure, but it is still surprising to me just how quickly the men of Leoch responded to the emergency. I don't know if it is because they've dealt with such things before, or if the workers here really are just that much of a team, but either way, it was quite something to witness, particularly after just having watched two sets of them literally beat each other with sticks.

At least a dozen men had led the advance on the flames, wielding extinguishers with practiced ease, while a score or more followed behind with buckets of water and shovelfuls of soil. There are clouds of smoke and steam wreathing themselves around the stable dooryard, the smell of which is thoroughly new to me, being part wet earth, part scorched barn paint, and part sharply chemical extinguisher foam, all overlaid with a generous spicing from I have no idea how many animal's droppings.

A few bits of ash drift upwards on the air, riding the warm draughts from the still-crackling core of Marc's fire. Piles of faintly blue extinguisher foam surround the windward side of the firepit, quivering in the sharp breeze that threads between the farm buildings, the pale bubbly surface liberally spattered with crumbs of soil from the arc of earth that now contains that whole edge of the fire. But the central coals have maintained their ever-shifting gold, orange and red, and the great caldron of pig feed is still steaming away like nothing has happened.

The drifts of foam continue on from there, over nearly the entire dooryard, to the huge lump I assume used to be the haystack, and up and across the two positively enormous three-meter tall sliding doors that open into the stables proper. A few flat, black smears of soot are visible across the red-painted wood panels, and there are some tufts of black stubble poking through on the haystack, but beyond that, there doesn't appear to be much damage.

The response was so quick and effective, in fact, that the dozens of people who streamed into the stables to remove the animals are mostly making their way back outside without them. There are a few men and animals in the yard – I see both Harry and Murtagh leading a horse with each hand, and Alain and Peter tending to one horse apiece - but all of them are headed back into the stables, muttering words of relief and thanks.

Personally, I wonder if the danger wasn't just a bit exaggerated.

Fire is not a common threat aboard the Skycities. Or, at least it wasn't until the war, and the subsequent invention of Blueblast bombs. And even those never threatened fire so much as threatened nearly instantaneous incineration. Before that though, I can only recall three fires of any note on Skycity 15, and only one that did damage to a residence. That one was a case of bad wiring and a dining table set too close to an electric stove. No one was hurt, and our Central neighbors had an exciting story to tell for the rest of their lives. The other two fires I know of were started by lightning strikes, and even then, the only damage was to outdoor market stalls. Save for those whose livelihoods depended upon the racks of scarves, and the packages of dried fruit, those fires were of little threat to anyone.

I realize the buildings here are made of far more flammable materials than we generally use on Skycities, but the stables are such a lanky, sprawling construction, I find it difficult to believe such a small point of contact like that haystack could become a threat to the entire building. I know it must have been, or else the response would not have been so urgent, but I just cannot _see_ it, in my own mind. Eventually, I have to admit to myself that I just don't know enough about fire, in any of its forms. And I know even less about stables. . .

I pick my way past the vat of pig feed, braving the sharp nip of the wind in my curiosity to see more of Marc's domain. He, Gil, Murtagh and Harry work around here on a daily basis, and in just a few days, we are all going to meet to discuss plans, situations and concerns.

I still know so little about this world yet, and much as I've been learning about Leoch, whenever I think of myself as Farm Manager here, I still feel like a shamefully jumped-up imposter.

Little Claire Randall, North-3 housewife and career farm tech, a _manager_? _The_ manager, of a large and diversified farming concern? Oh, I'd once dreamed of working for GenTech's crop development labs, but I wasn't innovative enough for that, nor were my gene-manipulation skills brilliant enough in their own right to let me coast through on flash alone. I'm a conscientious tech, open minded and generally skilled, but everything about me and my life is plain, sturdy, serviceable, and utterly ordinary. I'm nowhere near management material, or so I've always thought. And in all my years of work, I've been mostly content with that.

If ever there was someone less prepared for being landed right smack dab in the middle of the impossibly extraordinary, that was me a month ago.

Beyond the stable dooryard is a wide, sweeping field of a similar bleached and pale brown as the shinty field, the spare, uneven grass spiky, dry, and rigid in the wind. A long wire fence bounds it on all sides, but it is broken with many gates, and lined with an impressive collection of troughs and buckets.

The stables make a large L to my right, bordering that side of the field almost halfway, with large, red-painted sliding doors spaced widely but evenly all along the length of it. These seem to line up admirably with the gates to the field, and at last I can visualize the danger of fire to this place. It is all too easy to imagine horses and men streaming out of every portal, and huddling here in the field, trying to get away from licking flames and acrid smoke. . .

But there is only one figure in this large, wind-whispered stableyard at the moment, and that is Dougal, who is speaking so low and so intently to an obviously frightened horse that he doesn't notice me. The horse doesn't notice me either, being far too busy rearing his head back and forth in search of spooks. Dougal grunts, hums and mumbles, either in the Gàidhlig or in some private language of his own, firmly holding the animal's head-rope and stroking soothingly down the sides of its neck. Eventually the creature settles, and very gently rests its head on Dougal's shoulder. His arms come up then, to scratch the horse's ears and affectionately pat its head and neck. And all the time the timbre of his voice doesn't change, his words all soft and gentle, cooing, almost purring, caring in the extreme.

I turn away from the scene, more than a little shaken.

Every time I think I have Dougal figured out, either for good or for very, extremely ill, yet another layer of his personality is revealed to me that upends my previous image of him.

Perhaps to those who have known him for years it means nothing, but to a newcomer like me, that Dougal can be so kind and gentle to a lesser creature means, if not everything, then very nearly so.

The rapacious, power-hungry tyrant of yesterday, and the slimy, sneering manipulator from this morning seem to have vanished at the call of fire. Even the snarling, vindictive asshole from the shinty game was immediately replaced with that caring, gentle, outgoing man, with a kind voice and a tender touch.

Then my shoulder twinges, and I pause for a moment. I don't know if Dougal meant to send Jamie hurtling at me specifically, but the fact is, he did do it. Does his sincere care for one horse really mean all that much, in the end? Vicious, murderous men have been known to have their affections, after all. That Dougal can find it in him to be kind and gentle to an animal doesn't mean he hasn't been unkind and violent to me and others. If placed in varying circumstances, he shows himself to be more than one man. So what? Most men are, and most women too.

And yet. . .

No matter how much evil I have seen in him, how much good is that man back there capable of? A very great deal, I feel sure.

Enough to counter all the wrong he's done to me? For some reason I have no doubt at all that he is. But is he capable of enough good to counter any of his other sins? I don't know, but after all, that isn't for me to say. Only one thing is for sure. That sight back there has resolved me. I will carry out my full offensive, not just for Jamie's sake, nor for mine, nor for the people of Leoch, but for Dougal himself. There is a man in him that is worth fighting for, and perhaps if I battle him properly, he will come to see the value of that tender, caring part of himself - that lovely laugh and mischievous gleam in his eye that I've seen and heard from him so rarely, but each time immediately makes some part of me want to follow him, either into adventure, danger and war, or into plain, humble, honest labour.

Somewhere in him, hidden deep though it may be, there is a spark of the same sweet, boyish, effortless leadership that Jamie wears like a shield, and I am certain it _could_ be just as charming and effective in Dougal as it is in Jamie. I'll fight him for a chance to hold a mirror up to _that_ man, yes, no question I will.

Of course, I might fail. Or maybe he will fail me. There's more than a good chance he'll end up quashing that part of himself like a bit of dirt under heel, never to be missed. Perhaps he will never be my ally. Perhaps the war between us will all be for nothing.

But, I'm convinced it will be worth the attempt.

Now I just have to figure out _how_. . .

I crouch down next to the leeward side of the caldron of pig feed, and take up a stick to poke at the coals a little. This side of the firepit is fringed with half-burned pieces of kindling and tree bark, as well as spent coals, coated in a thick layer of ash. I poke one of the round, livid chunks of cinders, and watch as the soft, dark grey stuff flakes off in tiny puffs of dust, and the hard, central lump of black is revealed. Then I hit it back into the middle of the fire, as though my stick is a caman, and the coal a ball.

As if my dilemma is a game of shinty. . .

It is one thing to have the beginnings of a workable battle plan, and one thing to resolve to fight those battles, but it is quite another to know what moves would be best to make.

I could start at the top, I suppose, but I am reluctant to lean on Colum this early in the conflict, given that he is going to be so pivotal to my end game as well. No. I need a way to begin that is smaller, more personal, and closer to the bone. My opening gambit must be sharp, for I have to cut quickly and precisely, drawing the least amount of blood as possible, but leaving a thorn embedded so deeply, it will be almost impossible to remove until my offensive is concluded. And it must be done in public, openly, yet so subtly the blow will be unrecognizable for what it really is to anyone but Dougal and me. And perhaps Jamie.

I allow myself to debate whether or not I should bring Jamie in on it all yet. Last night proved that he can be an incredibly effective ally even when only half-informed of my intentions and needs, and that intuitive support of his will be highly valuable to me in the coming weeks, I have no doubt at all. But bringing him in on the planning stage sounds even more effective to me. I may be good at strategy, but I'm not strong enough at tactics to make flying solo any sort of attractive option at this point. I might be able to pull through alone if I had to, but the simple fact is, I do much better tactical thinking when I have some good solid backup. Jamie proved his wits and steel last night, not to mention this morning, and I already know he would make the perfect foil to bounce ideas off of. So why not? Above all – he _knows Dougal_.

That last point decides me. I need Jamie's knowledge of Leoch and its people far more than I need his uninformed intuitive support.

Next time we're alone, I'll bring him up to speed.

I've been absently stirring the ashes piled around this edge of the firepit, watching the bits of coal and cinder disintegrate into flat, cheerless grey. But occasionally, a larger chunk surfaces, and slides out of the ash onto the stones of the yard. Just now, my larger stick dislodges a smaller stick, and it lands at my feet with a surprisingly metallic tinkle. I pick up the tiny half-burned twig, smiling as it sparks a rush of warm memories.

Frank's hobby might have been power panels and energy salvage, but that was not his passion. He could hold forth with the best power-salvagers when it came to energy-grades and specialty silicates, of course, and he was thoroughly invested in the pastime, but only I knew the real reason why. In truth, he was only interested in it because fully licensed power salvaging was and is practically the only legal hobbyist activity on Skycity 15 that is at all likely to net you a supplemental income.

Which he needed, if he ever wanted to afford his art supplies.

Art grade paper, artist's erasers, blenders and other tools, and artist's charcoal – like the tiny stick of black currently residing on my palm – are toys of the rich on New Oxford. Far out of the everyday reach of sanitation workers and farm techs. Frank knew that as well as anyone, but he was determined, even obsessed, with fighting our status quo. There was no small irony in the fact that my marrying him prompted me to fully break with my incredibly rich parents, but he had fully supported the move, saying we were both steady and quite respectable workers, and therefore, we _deserved_ our leisure time, our opinions, and our passions. What we couldn't afford, we would _earn_ , whether those Central snobs liked it or not.

I remember falling even more in love with him the first time he told me that.

For years after that, every time Frank pulled in his power panels, he delighted in providing us some extra food, or buying our house some new curtains or a tablecloth, or getting us a new book download from Central Publishing. But part of the profits always went into a special fund, and once about every six months, he would splurge solely on himself, and buy a Black & White Artpack from Central Market.

Over the following months, still-lifes would emerge, or landscapes, or abstract patterns so surreal there are one or two that still haunt me to this day. Or, if he was truly inspired, he might bring forth a portrait. He didn't draw faces often, calling them "ten pounds of effort in an five pound bag", but when he did, there was something truly magical about them. He captured several of our neighbors in ways I still cannot fully comprehend. He drew a self portrait once, and managed to capture the very twinkle of bright, boyish goodness in his eyes that was the first thing I was ever attracted to about him. He drew me, much more than once, and each time I rediscovered that I'm not actually indifferent about my hair, or my lips, or my skin, I only seem to be, until someone else shows appreciation for them. Then self-consciousness takes over, and I never quite knew how Frank conveyed my blushes in black and white, but nevertheless he could catch them, and set them down on paper, showing the very instant of my transformation from blissful ignorance, to roused bewilderment.

He would use every square millimeter of the paper in those Artpacks, not just the few sheets of crisp, textured art paper either, but also the back of the thin cardboard packaging, and even the blank brown paper wrapper that enclosed the kneedable eraser. And he would use up that eraser too, turning it from pale grey to deep, useless black while obliterating any drawing he didn't like, just so he could have the space to try again.

There were days, he sometimes said, that thinking of what he would draw that evening was the only thing that would get him through the day.

Those days were the only times I envied him.

Before leaving Central, my hobbies had been the histories of earthbound sciences. There was botany, of course, but I had also had great interest in geography, geology and such, as well. Living with Frank in North 3, for all practical purposes, meant giving up those things, at least as amusements. The botany I used every day at my farming stations, but there was no way to continue my other interests once I did not have daily access to GenTech's seed library, or Central's World History Museum. Frank occasionally bought me books on scientific history, and we sometimes visited Central's Museum Mile on dates, but all in all, we really could only afford one rich-man's hobby. And so, of necessity, I became interested in his interests. Power salvage and charcoal drawing became my hobbies too, and I maintain I could have done far worse, particularly after the war.

The problem was, of course, that I am not, nor ever have been an artist.

Power salvaging I could get into and understand, even if I held no emotional attachment to it. But Frank's imagination, passion and joy of creation were all utterly alien to me. At least when it came to roughly textured art paper and small sticks of half-burnt scrapwood. I was glad he had those things – was thankful he did. But I was sometimes jealous of the fact that there was a place he could go, free from the cares and worries of war, and the bleak mundanities of life. A place he could go, where I could not follow. Eventually, I think, he felt my discontent, even if he didn't understand it, and like the good, loving husband he was, made the one suggestion he could think of that might balance the score between us again.

That we ought to try and have a baby.

I shake away the memories of those subsequent days – we were so _happy_ in our utter defiance of conflict, war and death. . .

But no matter how envious I ever got that he had his escape and I had none, it only made me love the pictures he drew even more, made me see greater and greater genius in them the more his talent progressed. One of my greatest regrets is that I was unable to save any of them from the fire. Yet I still I hold every one of them in my heart – every expressive stroke, every smoothly blended detail, every miraculous tiny masterpiece is with me, even now.

The little fragment of charcoal lays in my hand, not even reaching all the way across my palm.

Strange, how I am finding so many lost pieces of my future, here in the past.

"Weel, come along then, Sassenach," says Jamie's voice, as he comes up next to me, "All's well heer now, an' ye need a real sling fer that shoulder, oor ye'll have it right out again, sure as shootin'."

I smile, and close my fingers around my bit of lost beauty. I stand to look at him. Wordlessly, he offers me his arm, and I take it, just as silently. Then he drives us to his workshop, with three or four other runabouts following us, for reasons I cannot fathom. But it is made clear when Jamie starts applying burn ointment and distributing bandages to everyone. No one seems particularly hurt, and more than half the men leave mere minutes later - their minor burns soothed, their lunch awaiting them at the main house, so they have no compulsion to linger.

Jamie takes his time over the last few, being especially meticulous with a combined burn and scrape that shows long and ugly along Peter's elbow. He has to remove several splinters before dressing the skin, and he wraps it very carefully, giving a lot of instructions about keeping it clean.

Finally, he hands him a small pot of salve, and Peter makes his escape.

I watch him out the door. Just as he is leaving the gate, he passes Dougal, stomping his way in.

I turn away, so that I'm not looking at him when Dougal enters the workshop.

"D'ye have any of that burn ointment for the horses, laddie?" he demands without preamble.

I see Jamie clench his teeth a little before answering. "Aye. I'll get it in a moment." He bends over Alain's wrist, not deigning to look his uncle in the face.

Dougal shrugs, and removes his cap, tossing it carelessly on Jamie's desk. Then he shoulders his way past Murtagh, and with a loud snap of the sliding door, shuts himself into the cottage's little toilet station.

Jamie, Murtagh and I all share a fleeting, half-bewildered look.

With lots of instructions and another pot of ointment, Jamie sends Alain in to his meal. He nods and gives a pleasant "Thanks Jam!" before leaving briskly.

Jamie pauses a long while after he goes, then claps Murtagh on the shoulder, and gestures into the cottage's other room – "Heer, a goistidh – I'll give ye the horse's burn salve, and let ye help Dougal out wi' whate're bee he's got in his bonnet this time."

"Och, thanks an' nae thanks fer that! Ya wee plague. . ." Murtagh grumbles, but still follows him into the workroom, leaving me here, in Jamie's office, alone.

The sudden silence closes around me like a wide, heavy blanket.

A bee in his bonnet. . .

I look down at the piece of charcoal still gripped in my hand, and a horribly mischievous idea comes to me. I need an opening gambit for my offensive, yes, but this. . . it's _terrible_. Every kind of bad. And while it doesn't technically break any rules, it _certainly_ isn't noble warfare. I absolutely should not do it.

But it does happen to fulfill all my requirements for an effective opening move. . .

And if I follow it up with the right words and reactions, then, perhaps. . .

Perhaps.

But I still shouldn't do it. . .

My shoulder twinges again, and I recall the pained expression on Leticia's face as she watched me realize that the father of her child was slowly and deliberately bringing about the demise of her husband.

I prim up my mouth in a common Central expression of disdain.

Even duty and honour fall away when it comes to the demands of love, she'd said.

What's that old saying? All's fair in love and war?

Well, perhaps not _all_ , but close enough.

I make my mind up quickly, carrying out my idea so fast I don't have time to think better of it, then sitting down on the couch again, so when all three men return almost simultaneously, I am silent and detached, innocently paging though an old magazine Jamie had on his low table. It's called Modern Farming, and I'm finding the cover article on this era's crop regulators genuinely interesting.

There's some grumbling, and a few murmured words in Gàidhlig, but Jamie manages to send Dougal and Murtagh off back to the stables with relative ease. When he comes back in, the first thing he does is go digging for something in a cupboard in the far corner of his office space. I can't see what, nor do I ask. Then, he bundles himself into the toilet station, closing the door with a subdued click.

I shrug, and go back to my article.

I'm unsure how many minutes later it is, but surely not many, when I'm brought out of my sharply focused reading by a soft yet heavy something being laid on the low table in front of me. I look up. It's Jamie's kilt. I catch half a glimpse of him going into his workroom area, and I see he's wearing trousers now. I look back at the neatly folded pile of tartan, and reach out to examine a corner of it.

It's the first time I've given this kilt any close attention. At first glance it seemed much like the MacKenzie tartan, only slightly more complex in pattern. Now, seen closer to, I notice that the blues are brighter, the grays are warmer and richer, and where the colours merge there is an added line of softly-toned lavender. Most importantly, there is a thin stripe of red running through the heart of the pattern, like veins on the back of a hand.

"Tha's the Fraser tartan," says Jamie, returning to sit next to me, his arms full of bottles and bits of cloth and some things I can't immediately identify.

"It's beautiful," I say, dreamily.

"Aye. It's no' quite as comfortable as a belted-plaid, mind, nor as useful, but it's good, genuine Fraser tartan, I'll say tha' much fer it."

I snicker, wryly, "Jamie, are you trying to tell me your kilt is a bit pants?"

He stutters to a halt, then gives a huge guffaw, "Aye, I suppose I am, Sassenach. Jus' a wee bit." He sets down most of his armload of stuff, then gestures at my shoulder. "Tek off yer shirt."

I scoff a little at his uncustomary bluntness.

"It's a good job I like you. . ." I say, twisting up my mouth. Then, carefully, I begin to remove my jacket.

He pulls himself up for a second, then has the decency to look abashed, "Aye, sorrae – 'tis only that I wan'tae fix ye up, ken?"

"Oh, I ken."

Our eyes meet with a twinkle of mutual understanding, and then I turn so he can more easily reach my shoulder.

He unbuckles me from Rupert's belt, pours a bit of oil into his palms, rubs his hands together, and then wraps them both gently around my right shoulder.

The oil smells citrusy and sweet, and his hands are incredibly warm. Massive amounts of tension I wasn't aware I was carrying release with a completely unexpected wave of relief.

"Mmm," I sigh, "That feels good."

Softly, rhythmically, he starts smoothing the oil into my skin.

"Agch, Sassenach," he chuckles, "If ye'ed wanted a massage, all ye hadtae doo was ask _nicely_ , ken?"

I smile at his teasing, somewhat ruefully. A hard, painful blush comes up on my cheeks, "I really should apologize to you, Jamie."

"Hmphm," he grunts, still gently working at my shoulder, "An' what for, exactly?"

"Well. . . everything, really. Yesterday. Last night. This morning."

"Sae ye'ev remembered it all then?"

"Yes. Or nearly all of it."

"Alright. Soo let me ask ye again – what are ye apologizin' for? Be specific now."

He runs two fingertips very precisely up and down my right arm. He does it twice, then shifts the place and does it twice more. It isn't a caress – it's something medicinal that I don't understand. Then he returns to my shoulder and starts applying firm but gentle pressure on some very specific points. Some of them burn a bit, and all of them throb with a very unpleasant soreness, but it is nevertheless a good ache. Paired with Jamie's healing touch, I don't care that I can't understand all of it. It's making me feel better, and that's what matters.

"Well. . . I. . . I suppose I'm apologizing for. . . only thinking of myself. For assuming that I would be the only one who might have anything to. . . well, to forgive. I completely disregarded the fact that _you_ might have been offended by _my_ actions, not just me by yours. . ."

I can't see it from this angle, but I can feel him smile.

"Apology accepted, mo ghràidh," he drops a gentle kiss on my left shoulder, "Bu' I wasnae offended. Jus' so ye ken."

Another previously unnoticed knot of tension within me relaxes, "You weren't?"

He hums softly, "Nae. Slightly annoyed, mebbe. Agitated. . ." he leans closer to me, and runs the tip of his nose all along the rim of my left ear, "Aroused. . ." he whispers.

A wave of warmth runs though me, and it has only a very little to do with his hands.

"Oh?"

He hums again, his breath warming the back of my head, "O tha, tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn."

He has said those words before, but the repetition does not dull their intensity, nor does it mean I can understand them any better.

But I don't have to understand the sudden rush of air in my lungs, nor the insistent pounding in my blood. That Jamie has caused them is enough.

He lifts his hands from my shoulder, and I feel the loss more keenly than the cold.

"Ye need a hot compress now, Sassenach," he says, wiping his hands clean, and taking up a small, slender sack that looks like it's full of grain. He puts it in the small wave-heater that's beside his refrigeration unit. Then he pokes a few buttons, and the thing beeps petulantly, before finally turning on. "Only reason I keep this auld thing around," he says, thumping the top of it, carelessly but affectionately.

"For warming hot compresses?"

"Aye. No' usually for such a lovely lady, a'coorse."

"Oh no?"

"Nae. Usually they're fer horses."

I smile mischievously, "Well. I'm glad you don't put me in that category."

"Och, I would nevar," he rolls his eyes and grins exaggeratedly.

I laugh, so comfortable around him that it doesn't even matter I'm stripped down to my bra, or that his hands were massaging my skin while he admitted that he was aroused the last time we touched. . .

Or rather, it isn't that these things don't matter, it's that they're so natural at this point, there isn't even a vestige of awkwardness about them.

Which is something of a miracle, all things considered.

The device beeps again, this time to signal it has finished, apparently, because he turns to remove the little sack of grain. I see it is gently steaming now, and suddenly the whole room smells of fresh bread. He balances it very carefully around my shoulder, then drapes my shirt and jacket over my back.

"Covar an' let steam fer fifteen minutes," he says, cheerfully teasing, "Feelin' any bettar, mo ghràidh?"

"Mm. Much." I nod.

"Good."

Suddenly, my stomach rumbles, embarrassingly loudly.

He looks at me reproachfully, "Have ye been skippin' meals again, Sassenach?"

I wave off his concern, "After last night and this morning, I wasn't hungry until now."

"Mmphm," he hums, dubiously, "Tha' isnae an excuse, mo nighe-"

"Oh? 'I wasn't hungry' isn't _good enough_ for you?" I snap, temper flaring, "So what _would_ be an excuse, then? Quadruple amputation? But oh, no, they could still wheel me into the dining room on a gurney, right? God forbid I miss _one_ of the constant onslaughts of calories the kitchen dumps into my lap for free every day, as if there won't _always_ be another meal waiting in just a few hours anyway, all gussied up on a silver platter!"

Jamie stares at me, jaw slack, totally bewildered. It occurs to me that he hasn't seen me really angry before, or at least not at him personally. I desperately try to calm down. There's no way he knows what a hot button food is to me. . .

"I. . . only wish tae take care of ye, Sassenach," he says, very quietly.

"Fine," I exhale sharply, "But don't you dare _patronize_ me while doing it, do you understand me, Fraser? I'm not an infant. I know what I can handle and when. Informing you of that is not an excuse. It's a _reason_. I'm allowed to make my own choices, Jamie."

"Aye, so ye are," he says, face blank, eyes wary.

"Besides, missing a meal has never killed me before, I doubt highly it's going to start now."

"Aye, ye'ev said such before. . . " he draws his brows together seriously, "May I assume tha' mean's ye. . . weel. . . that there have been times. . . when there _wasnae_ always another meal waitin'?"

I am thoroughly unprepared for how completely this question shatters me. All of my anger collapses into something dark and horrid that I don't want to acknowledge exists inside my mind. I can't even speak for a minute.

It takes many long seconds for me to find my voice again.

"These past eight months. . . they haven't been easy, Jamie." I press my knuckles to my lips, living again some of my worst days out on the Rim – cold, lonely, depressed and starving - "I know what real hunger is, yes. And missing one meal doesn't bring it on. Missing _two_ meals doesn't bring it on. Real hunger is living off of potato peelings and corn husks scraped off of random compost piles, and praying to god you're not eating chicken shit."

"Christ. . . did ye no' have friends there in Oxford, mo chridhe?"

I huff a tiny humourless laugh, "What friends I had did whatever they could. They bought things when I had something to sell. Helped me make and keep my connections within my trade, for all the good that did. But they tried. And some threw work my way when it was there to be had." I meet Jamie's sober, steady blue eyes, "But friends like you? Friends who insist on taking care of me so much they make a nuisance of themselves? I haven't had a friend like that since Frank died, Jamie."

A half-dozen expressions cross his face, so rapidly that I can't follow them.

"Ye'ev. . . really eaten corn husks?" he asks, with a tentative smile.

I shrug with my free shoulder, "Yeah. They don't taste too bad, but they aren't very nutritious. And they're mostly roughage, so they're decidedly less pleasant on the way out than they are on the way in."

His smile morphs into a mildly disgusted grimace of understanding.

"It's nae wonder ye c'n face Dougal head-on, then. Ye'ev already faced far worse than aught he c'n doo tae ye."

I nod, slowly, "That's. . . certainly part of it."

"I'm sorrae I talked down tae ye, Sassenach," he says, looking at his hands. Then, he meets my eyes, steadily, "Wilnae happen again."

"See that it doesn't," I say, mildly, "And I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Ye had th'moor reason. . ."

"Maybe." I pause, thoughtfully, "But, speaking of Dougal. . ."

"Aye?"

"Do you think he did this on purpose?"

"Yer shoulder?"

I nod, and he shakes his head and shrugs at the same time, "I dinnae ken. I gave him a piece of my mind right after he did it, bu' if he had any previous intentions, then I'm the last one could get him tae admit it."

"He fouled you during the match, too."

"Aye," he grins, triumphantly sly, "An' I fouled him right back – ye didnae see that, did ye?"

"No, I didn't."

"Because I c'n do it bettar than him, an' I dinnae let him forget it. He still called me a cheat, tho'." He shrugs, "I said I'd learned tae do it from him, an' asked what he'd think of me if I didnae fight back wi' all I had. He said 'No' much'." He runs a hand over his chin, still rough with stubble from yesterday.

I mull that over for a minute. "Well, that's all the declaration of intent I need. You?"

Jamie sits back down next to me, and removes the hot compress, then helps me on with my shirt, "What are ye on about, Sassenach?"

"He wants a war, Jamie. What say we give him one?"

His eyebrows go up, "Over a few fouls during a shinty match? Agch."

"No, _not_ for that, silly," I gesture at my shoulder as he gently fits my arm into a sling, "For this. And for trying to blackmail me and using you to do it. And for spying on Colum. And exploiting Letitia. And lying to Hamish, come to that. Let's fight him for being a user. For only _taking_ , when he has so much to give."

"Ye wantae fight a man for that?"

"Can you think of a better reason?"

That brings him up short, and he pauses for a long minute.

"Now ye mention it. . . nae. I cannae."

I nod. Then, slowly and deliberately, I outline my ideas for a general battle plan, making it clear that half of my reasoning stems from wanting to protect the residents of Leoch from any reprisals.

" _Reprisals_?" Jamie gasps. "Sassenach, ye'el have the fox in amongst the chickens wi' all that, right enough!"

I fight back a pang of discouragement, "You think it's too much?"

"Tha's no' even the question. Et's. . ."

"Yes?"

He scrubs his hands over his face, then sighs in frustration, "Ye really intend tae make the Gathering yer endgame?"

"I do."

He leans back against the couch cushions, face pensive. "It isnae a bad plan, mo chridhe, only rough an' ready a' the moment. It needs refinin', ken?"

"Well, I did only think of it this morning."

"Aye. D'ye play chess, mo ghràidh?"

I shrug, wondering what that has to do with anything, "I used to, years ago. I don't know if that counts."

"Aye, it counts well enough. Is there a set in yer rooms? There is in most guest rooms, but some dinnae have them."

My mind flies to the pair of shelves full of colourful boxes in my front sitting room, "Why yes, I believe there is. A little carved wooden thing, painted red and white."

"Weel. Mebbe we can hash it all out over a game taenight?"

I grin, "You do ask me on dates in the strangest ways, James Fraser. But would a chess match. . . help?"

"Aye. Chess is the only war I ken. But give me a game, a glass of whisky, an' time tae think, an' I'll help ye figure it out, sure enough."

He helps me zip up my jacket, and I fiddle with the zipper tag for a few seconds before saying, slowly, "That sounds good. . . but it might be a bit late to change the plan entirely. . ."

He snaps his eyes to mine, "Why? Wha' have ye done, Sassenach?"

I tell him.

It takes a few seconds for him to get over the shock, but then he nearly explodes with incredulous laughter, eyes wide, mouth open, "No! Ye _didnae_!"

I smirk, "Oh, I very much did."

"D'ye have any _idea_ how they'll all react? How _he'll_ react? He'll be at tea taeday - they'll _all_ be at tea taeday, 'tis a Saturday. An' Jesus, Mary and Bride, it's _tea_. Sometimes there are _tourists_ in for Leoch teas at th'weekend - they're set special for them. It'll be carnage, Sassenach, utter carnage." His face is a most disconcerting blend of savage glee and fierce consternation.

"But. . . I mean. . ." I fumble a bit, afraid I might have indeed gone too far already, "Are you sure they won't be a little bewildered first? They won't be shocked and wonder what's up at all? There won't be any grace period?"

"Och, aye, there will be, bu' what good can fifteen seconds - at most - do ye when we're talking about something like this?"

I relax at once, "Fifteen seconds? That's a lifetime with something like this, Jamie. It can change the whole impact of the thing, if I say the right words in between."

"Ahgch. _Words_ again," he sighs.

I nod, "They're my weapon of choice, yes."

"Alright," he gestures broadly, "Tell me what ye're plannin' on saying, an' I'll guard yer back as best I can."

I tell him this, too. Once my meaning sinks in, he sits up straight, confusion all over his face.

"Wait. . . he was? He did?"

"He did. I saw him."

He laughs, sharply, "Nae'un else did."

"I know. That's why I think I can swing this around. With your help, of course."

He blows out his cheeks, and hums thoughtfully, "Weel. It'll be quite an opening punch if we can."

"Except if we're successful, it won't look like a punch to anyone but Dougal."

"Aye, I'm a bit vague on that point, Sassenach," he draws one finger along his lower lip, "An' I think it may have something tae do wi' one bit ye didnae explain this mornin'."

"Oh? What's that?"

"What _is_ it ye want from Dougal, in the end? What is yer goal?"

"You don't know? I thought you might have figured it out by now."

He cocks an eyebrow, dubiously, "Weel, I have a few guesses, but. . ."

I take his nearest hand in mine, "Jamie, all I have ever wanted from Dougal Mackenzie is to be his ally."

"Tha's it?"

"That's it. The sum total. He and me, on equal terms, facing the same direction. That's all I want. I wouldn't say no to a friendship developing from there, but I'm not counting on it. Though he is capable of it, I know that. So, if waging war with him is the only way to convince him, well, then, so be it."

He shakes his head, "Puir beggar didnae ken wha' he was getting' inta when he brought ye heer, did he?"

"No. But I can hardly blame him for that."

"Except ye can." He jumps up, and begins to rapidly put away all the things he got out to treat my shoulder.

"I can?"

"Aye. Any man of sense would'ha stopped underestimatin' ye sae badly the minute ye fixed the Rover, stood up tae th'lot of us, and ate a plateful of haggis wi' nary a qualm. _Especially_ if he thinks ye'er a spy. I blame him verrah much for nae knowin' a'least _part_ of what he was getting' inta by then, I do."

He reaches out to take my hand, then, and for the first time I notice the thin red line of a small burn across the back of his palm. "You're hurt too!" I say, unreasonably shocked he didn't say anything.

"Och, nae, it's no'thin'." He pulls his hand away, and gives it a critical look, "I've had worse. I'll bide."

I can't cross my arms, one of them being in a sling, but I narrow my eyes at him, "Are you really telling me that you mean to take the best care of me I've had since my husband died, _and_ you mean to deny me the pleasure of reciprocating?"

He blinks, "Weel, when you put it like that. . ."

I grin in triumph, then practically run over to his worktable, and scoop up one of the pots of salve like those he was giving out to the farming staff. Its little metallic gold label flashes in my hand, showing a small white logo that, surprisingly, I recognize. This brand of first-aid products still exists in my time. Even better. . .

"Nae, dinnae use that one, Sassenach!"

The urgency in his voice brings me to an abrupt stop, and I look over at him, confused, "But. . . why not?"

He sets his jaw, and strange tension forms around his eyes, "Smell it."

I open the small plastic jar, and smell the iconic lavender and aloe ointment this brand makes, and apparently will make for hundreds of years. It's perfectly normal.

"Mmm. Smells just like it should," I look questioningly at him, "Doesn't it?"

"Aye. Just like lavender."

"And. . . ?"

"An' I cannae stand lavender, Sassenach."

"But you used it on all the farm hands. . ."

He nods sharply, "Aye, they're a simple lot, most of them – I ken they're moor likely tae take proper care of the burns if they feel like they're "official" on-the-job injuries, an' bein' treated by a professional. They wouldnae feel so if all I gave them was my oon homemade ointment." He takes up a little hand-labeled glass jar from the other side of the worktable and presents it to me, "Heer. Ef ye mus', use this'un."

I take it, smiling softly at him, and begin to apply a thin layer to the little burned spot, "Okay. But what I meant was, you used the stuff you don't like on the men, Jamie – if you can't stand it. . . how did you do that? _Why_ did you do it?"

He shrugs, blandly, "Professionalism, I suppose."

His voice is dismissive. He clearly doesn't want to talk about it. I don't push the issue.

It takes a bit of finagling to do it with only one hand, but eventually I manage to fix a small plaster over the area, "There. Now, let's make you happy by getting me a meal, and make me happy by having you there when the shit hits the fan with Dougal." I put the little pot of salve back where he keeps it, then go to wash up. When I come back out, I plant my free hand on my hip, and look up at him, "Deal?"

"Aye. Thankee, lass." He kisses me on the lips, quickly but softly, and offers me his arm, "Let us go in tae tea, mo nighean." He links our arms together, and gestures us out of his workshop.

I haven't had tea in the dining room here yet. Lunch is usually a hasty meal in the kitchens, if the staff eat anything at all then, and it has no set time for us in the offices and outbuildings, for Mrs. Fitz usually sends us out in the morning with ample things to eat whenever we want. But tea is different. Often, it is the most substantial meal of the day, to the point that I've noticed most of the farm labourers don't even attend supper.

But weekends are special, and the dining room runs on a slightly different schedule, regardless. I know from Mrs. Fitz that a Saturday tea in the dining room will be served buffet-style, and will be fairly well varied, but nothing like supper last night. I expect a hearty meal enough, but probably somewhat lighter than Mrs. Fitz's standbys of macaroni pies, mince and skirlie, and clapshot.

I smile at the number of food terms I've had to absorb in so short a time here at Leoch. And I once thought tea with Lamb was a learning experience!

Jamie has kept me entertained on our way into the house with many funny tales of shinty games past – like the one time Edan performed a midair somersault to avoid a tackle, or when Jerry tripped over his own caman and landed face first into some horse apples. They are encouraging stories one and all, because it means I'm hardly the only one to have sustained an injury at a Leoch shinty match, and I certainly won't be the last. That I'm a woman and was a bystander instead of a player won't matter - "That time Wee Jamie ran into the Sassenach" will make a good story, I feel sure, for many generations of Leoch shinty players to come.

That the whole thing was Dougal's fault will be conveniently forgotten, of course.

The dining room is much less formally laid out than it was last time I was here. Instead of one long table and a High Table, there are eight smaller ones laid in a grid down the room. There is still one High Table set crosswise at the head of the room, but it loses something of its imperious presence this way. And of course the long sideboard with the food laid out on it encourages mingling, and conversation between everyone, not just whoever you're seated near.

The more casual atmosphere carries over into what behaviour is acceptable too, for Jamie and I walk right in, and go to the back of the buffet line without any ceremony at all.

I immediately see what Jamie meant about tea in the dining room being "for tourists", because not only is everything already pre-portioned into bowls and plates – the first time I've seen any kind of portion control since Leaving Skycity 15, in fact – but each dish is actually _labeled._ Little cardboard signs list ingredients and declare names like scotch eggs, sausage rolls, Cullen skink, cream of chicken stew, panakelty, stovies, and rumbledethumps. Over on the dessert table there are things called cranachan, fly cemeteries, and fern cakes. I smile, not just at the whimsical terms, but at the comforting feeling of not having to ask too many questions for once, even though the only thing I even vaguely recognize is the chicken stew.

Jamie helps me manage my plates and bowls, and we go and sit at one of the lower tables, close to where Murtagh, Harry, and several of the other men I met last night are sitting.

"Sae I see ye'ev already forgi'en oor wee Jamie fer slammin' inta ye sae hard?" Harry teases, as soon as we are comfortably seated.

I quirk my lips, and look at Jamie askance. The sexual overtones in Harry's voice and words are impossible to miss, and with what I am hoping will happen with Dougal in a few minutes in the forefront of my mind, I'm feeling remarkably mischievous.

"Yes," I say, saucily, more to Jamie than to Harry, "I mean what else could I do, really? No man has _ever_ thrown himself at me like that before."

Jamie's eyes widen a bit before he joins in on the laughter around the table.

"Popp't th'knobbin' right oot a'joint, did he?" Harry drawls.

"Oh yes," I say, drily, " _And_ put it back in again. _Very_ effective."

Most of the table descends into helpless laughter at these exchanges, and I share another look with Jamie. He's far from unhappy with the direction the chatter has gone. He regards me from behind the large chunk of crusty bread he's holding, his eyes all warm and soft, their expression half flirty and half incredibly sweet. Then he breaks off a piece of the bread, and dunks it in his soup. He got the Cullen skink, the same as me. It's made with cream and fish and onions and leeks, and honestly, I've scarcely ever tasted anything so good.

I take up a fork to try a bit of potato from the panakelty, and while I'm there, I steal a bit of sausage from Jamie's nearby plate of stovies. He's about to teasingly slap my hand away when he suddenly stops, and looks back and forth between us several times.

"Tha's odd, Sassenach," he murmurs.

"What is?"

"Ye'er left-handed."

I look down at the fork I'm using so easily, without a trace of awkwardness, despite my right arm being all wrapped up in a sling.

"And so I am. What's odd about that?"

"Nothin'. It's only. . . I am too."

With mild surprise, I see his spoon is indeed in his left hand.

"Oh. So you are," I say, pleased, but far from shocked, "But there's not a lot odd about that, either. . ."

"Maybe no' the fact of it, no," he says, stirring his soup contemplatively before taking a bite, "Bu' when I'm around som'un else kippy-handed, I almost allus notice. Usually in the first few minutes. Tha' I have'nae done so wi' ye. . . _tha's_ what's odd."

I nod, thoughtfully, because he's very right, "Yeah. I usually notice other leftys right away too, come to think of it. I guess our minds have been pretty focused on other things. . ."

"Aye. Tha' mus' be it. . ." he starts, and trails off, clearly unconvinced. He wrinkles up his forehead, and speaks downward, toward his soup, "But. . . et's almost as if we. . . we didnae _need_ tae notice, mo chridhe. Like we kent it already. Like we've always kent it. Somehow."

I know it's hardly the time or place, but I am seriously considering broaching the subject of the waking dream we shared while on the dance floor last night, when there is a mild stir in the general conversation behind me. Jamie looks up, and I can tell by the look on his face that Dougal has entered the dining room.

I take a deep breath, and slowly exhale.

Here we go. . .

It takes all of my willpower not to turn around and stare at Dougal while he assembles his tea. I do glance quickly at Jamie, and the small nod he gives me tells me everything I need to know. Dougal is still wearing the boots, cap, and belted plaid he was during the shinty match, regardless of what he's been doing since.

Mechanically, I force myself to eat, my senses on such high alert that I barely taste the things that were so savoury and good mere moments ago. No matter. Dougal enters my peripheral vision, and I see him sit down at the High Table, his posture as casual as I have ever seen it get.

Perhaps he won't do it. . .

But no. Force of habit. He's sitting at a table, having a meal. He _has_ to. It's the polite thing to do. . .

It is only a second or two, but it feels like a lifetime before he raises his hand to do what I knew he would do, and in exactly the way I've seen him do it several times now.

He raises his hand to remove his knitted woolen cap. He slides it off in a deliberate, subdued manner that always runs the cap's headband straight across the entire dome of his head. It's one of the first of his mannerisms I learned, and now, it's come back to bite him.

Dougal is perhaps the most confident and assured bald man I've ever met. There isn't a speck of shame in him regarding his hair, or the lack of it.

An attitude which amplifies his current state tenfold.

While that same woolen cap had sat alone on Jamie's office desk, I had applied the bit of charcoal I was still holding to the inside of the headband, rubbing it into the cloth so it would leave dark smears wherever it made contact with the skin.

At the moment, Dougal looks like he is wearing a cheap, ineffective, utterly ridiculous hair piece. And given the way he habitually removes his cap, it also looks like a shockingly clumsy comb-over. In deep, coal black. On a man whose hair is a clean, respectable silver.

My first charcoal drawing. And it is one which I think Frank would be proud of. . .

It's such a stunning sight, it takes the room a good bit more than the fifteen seconds stipulated to fully absorb what it is seeing. Slowly, table by table, conversations stutter to a stop, people cease eating, and look up and stare.

"Mhac na galla. . ." I hear Murtagh breathe, so stunned he falls back into the Gàidhlig.

Very quickly the room metaphorically shakes itself, and tries to get back to its interrupted meal, but the sight of the still-oblivious Dougal is _there_ , and simply cannot be ignored. I hear first one, then two people stifle a wild laugh. In five, six more seconds, it will be pandemonium in here, Dougal's reputation forever shattered, and what little control over Leoch he ever had blasted to smithereens.

I desperately try not to smirk.

It's time to turn the tide. . .

I attempt to affect nonchalance. I'm unsure how well I do, but everyone is so baffled by what they're seeing, they probably aren't paying much attention to me.

Yet. . .

"Why is everyone staring?" I ask, I hope casually, "It's just soot. He probably picked it up while he was getting his horse out of the way of the fire."

Murtagh blinks, and comes back to himself, "Wha's that, lassie? Nae, couldnae be. He wasnae there in the stables wi' us fer that. Dinnae ken what he was doin'."

There are nods all around the table.

"But he was. I saw him. In the back stableyard. He was taking care of one horse in particular – dark brown, but with a light coloured mane. . ."

"Baroque?"

"If that's the horse's name, sure – he was spooked something awful. It took Dougal a hot minute to calm him down."

"Tha's Baroque right enough. . ." grunts Murtagh.

"Aye, an' ye ken Baroque doesnae like bonnets," says Harry, "A'coorse he'd tek it off fer that."

I give a very brief glance at Jamie. His eyes twinkle brightly at me. It's going far better than either of us could have hoped for.

"Bu' how did the soot get inta it then?" asks Leo.

"Who knows?" says Harry, "Who cares? It was fer the horses, tha's what matters – an' the Sassenach says he was there."

"He talked wi' Marc after, I think," says Peter, "Mebbe it happened then."

Mebbe. . . mebbe. . . mebbe - the word flows and echoes around the room, followed by - But the Sassenach says. . . The Sassenach. . . The Sassenach. . . The Sassenach says. . .

All laughter has left the room. Now, all that remains is wonder, curiosity, and respect.

By this time Dougal has noticed the strange ebb and flow of conversations around the room, and is giving a sharply confused glance around. I very deliberately do not make eye contact with him yet.

A man in kitchen livery approaches the High Table then, and delivers a tray with a small pile of steaming hot, damp cloths. The man speaks in Dougal's ear, privately and urgently.

Dougal sits bolt upright, and grabs the top wet cloth so fast it would be comical if not for the stricken look that momentarily mars his features.

For a split second, I feel bad. This isn't how I wanted my relationship with Dougal to go. . .

But it's all for a good purpose, I remind myself. Besides, the die is cast. There is _absolutely_ no going back now. . .

The moment Dougal's head is free of charcoal, the room reacts in perhaps the last way I expected.

They cheer.

It is, unsurprisingly, the last reaction that Dougal expected either, and after a wave of his hands and a bewildered sitting half-bow, he returns to his tea, ferociously stabbing at the food on his plate, more confused than I've ever seen him. Very gradually, I see the confusion subside, and a strange half-sneer appears on his lips. He's starting to suspect.

Then, and only then, do I turn my head to fully face him, allowing our eyes to lock.

His expression freezes, save for a barely noticeable narrowing of his eyes.

I give him a small, deliberate, even respectful incline of the head.

It's all he needs. He understands. Or, at least, he _knows_. We're at war, and I've just struck my first blow. But he doesn't understand what I've hit, or where I've hit it. Not yet.

He breaks eye contact with me, pushes his plate away, and folds his hands in front of his chin. His eyelids are lowered, but not closed.

He might be praying. But I know he isn't. I've just delivered the opening volley in an offensive he means to win. This is the look of a man fully determined to beat me, at my own game.

Here's to hoping Jamie and I can beat him at his first.

Speaking of Jamie, he gets up then, leaving his empty plates and bowls scattered around the table, and goes over to the buffet again. He returns with a plate heaped high with sausage rolls, and a small bowl with three fern cakes in it.

"Our supper, lass," he says, smiling, "Mos' like we willnae wantae break fer it. Best take it with us now."

"Sae ye have plans fer taenight then?" asks Murtagh, not at all subtly. He's asking if we're sleeping together, in everything but words.

"Aye," says Jamie, openly, "Claire's done me the great honour of agreein' tae have a game oor twa o'chess wi' me taenight."

Murtagh rolls his eyes, dismissively, "Och, ye an' yer chess. I might'ha knoon."

"Aye, ye might have, mo goistidh," he gestures with his head at me, "Weel, let's be going then, Sassenach."

I can't help but smile, and with a cheerful goodnight to everyone at our table, I follow Jamie out of the room.

We're halfway to my rooms before he speaks again.

"Sae it wasnae exactly true then, was it?"

"What wasn't?"

"That ye havenae played a game of chess in years. Tha' was one o' th'best matches I've evar seen, mo nighean, an' I was in Paris for Briggs vs. McCullough."

I blush a bit at his praise. It means an awful lot coming from him. "Thank you, Jamie," I say, meaning it with all my heart, "So you really think we can take him on?"

"Now I do, aye," he smiles, hungrily, "Ye wee lioness!"

I unlock the door to my rooms, and usher him in. He sets our supper on the low table in front of my favourite couch, and goes over to my shelves to find the box with the little wooden chess set. A moment later, and he's setting it up, deftly arranging the pawns and rooks and bishops.

"Soo. . ." he says, contemplatively, "The White Queen took the Red King's Knight, then?"

I smile, readying myself to be speaking in chess metaphors all evening. "No."

"No?"

"No. The White Queen's _Castle_ took the Red _Queen's_ Knight. And then the White Queen gave him back. Only the Red Queen's Knight knows he was captured at all."

He shakes his head, eying me teasingly, "Are ye _shure_ ye ken how the game is played, Sassenach?"

"Of course I do. The game is played however the players say it is."

"Tha's no' chess," he snorts, "Tha's Double Cranko."

I have no idea what game that is, but I shrug nevertheless, "Whatever it takes."

He's been laughing at me, but suddenly he sobers up gravely.

"Aye," he nods, jaw jutting in a way I would not like to see set against me, "Whatever it takes, mo nighean."

Primarily, it takes several hours, some long debates, and much less actual chess playing than either of us wanted, but by the time midnight rolls around, we've hashed things out, and my vague, impulsive ideas have become a coherent, supportable battle plan, with Jamie backing me up one-hundred percent.

"What with all that's happened taeday, who would ha' thought that it would only be Stage One, eh?" Jamie grins as he kisses me goodnight, "Be careful, mo nighean donn – 'tis a dangerous life ye lead."

"I know," I nod, and kiss him back. And I do know, all too well. "I will be."

I watch him out my door and down the hall, wanting desperately to tell him to be careful too, but knowing he also knows that, and suspecting he would appreciate my saying so unnecessarily just as much as I appreciated him chiding me for not eating.

I sigh, and go in to get ready for bed. He's quite right. It's been a much longer day than I expected it would be.

"Stage One complete." I murmur to myself.

As I drift off to sleep, I am busily planning Stage Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goistidh – godfather
> 
> "O tha, tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn." - Oh yes, I love you, my brown-haired lass.
> 
> If you're interested in any of the foods mentioned, a lovely Scottish lady named Cheryl makes all of them, and a whole lot more, over on her YouTube channel “What's For Tea”. Check it out for a heartwarming, relaxing good time - https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC1r-NIqBFvDzhLT5Y9JwDfg


	39. Oversight

"Bye Gil, bye Marc!"

I wave to the men as they pull away from the manager's garage.

"'Til Monday then!" calls Gil. Marc says nothing, but he gives me a somber nod from behind the control yoke of the runabout.

I nod back happily, then turn and go back inside.

At once Lily Bara is shaking my hand, her two young assistants quietly attentive behind her, "Aye, an' it's a right joy tae ha'e a manager at last whoo'll listen tae reason!"

I smile, quickly extricating myself. Lil has said little else but variants of this same phrase for the past hour or so – ever since I invited her to make her report and add any personal ideas or concerns she wished. "Now th'Lord kens tha' auld Beaton was a man well worth 'is salt when it came tae things planting-wise, bu' there were precious few men he ever would listen tae, save 'is own sweet self, and _nevar_ a wooman atall."

"Yes, so you've said. . ."

"Sae a fair mind an' a wooman's heart is fair welcome, that it is-"

"Wonderful," I say, searching briefly for something to say that won't be merely a repetition of everything the lot of us have been talking about for the past three hours. "I'll. . . try and find a Scottish provider for those sheep jackets you mentioned. . ."

"Ach, tha's a fine thought, Missie – a fine thought indeed!" She grins, then grabs her coat and galoshes, and makes to go back out into the cold, drizzly mud of the waning afternoon. Her assistants – two tall, redheaded boys, obviously twins, and as quiet as Lil is voluble – put on their coats and boots as well, and follow her out – not without a respectful nod apiece at me, of course.

"Weel that's tha' then," says Murtagh, leaning back comfortably on the couch.

"Aye," says Harry, shuffling about, glancing between Murtagh and me, "An' if et' all t'same t'ye, I'll be goin' tae talk tae Geordie now. There's that new tack we have comin' in taemorrow – it's specialty stuff fer the new horses - and Geordie kens moor about it than I do. . ."

"Aye lad," says Murtagh, nodding, "You go'n do that. Mebbe ye'll distract him from whate'er-"

A metallic clang and a string of sharp Scottish curses echo from the open door between the office and the garage.

"- from whate're troubles he's havin' wi' that engine of his," Murtagh finishes, with an ironic glance at me.

"Yes, do go keep him company, Harry," I say, encouragingly, "The poor fellow didn't know what he was taking on when he offered to tune up that bloody Liger. Hybrid engines are no picnic – especially so, I imagine, when you're more used to horses than any sort of engines at all," I shrug, "But he's determined to be able to do every aspect of my job, at least a little bit, just in case I ever have to delegate to him." I smile, thoughtfully, "I have to say – I respect the hell out of the sentiment."

Harry looks at me sidelong, "C'n I tell him ye said so?"

"You most certainly can," I grin, "Swear words and all."

Harry grins, winks, and disappears into the garage.

It's been a very strange few hours for me, rediscovering through Marc and Lil how truly unorthodox I am around here. I'm a woman, and English, and "quality" - all three things neither of them associated with a Farm Manager before this. That I also drink and swear would in themselves be more than enough to baffle them greatly, but the word has gone around by now that Jamie and I are dating, and that puts me solidly into the realm of utterly incomprehensible. Or at least that's where I was at the beginning of the Manager's meeting. . .

Clearly, I won Lil over by just listening to her. Marc, I think, still needs to be convinced, but he shows all the signs of at least being co-operative while he waits for me to prove myself.

Murtagh's thoughts are obviously running along the same lines as mine, for he speaks up, "Weel now, ye'ev impressed Lil, right enough, at least. An' Marc'll come 'round, dinnae fash."

"Oh, I'm sure he will. It's Lil I'm worried about, anyway. . ."

"Whaat fer?" he asks, incredulously drawing out his vowels.

"Well, she's built me up in her mind so much," I shrug, "Of the two of them, she's the one I'm bound to disappoint eventually." I plunk myself down next to him on the couch, unexpectedly exhausted by what, by any standard, has hardly been a physically taxing day.

"Agch, an' why should ye proove a disappointment at all, now?"

I huff a bit, ruefully, "That's nice of you to say, Murtagh, but. . . Well, you've seen in there, right?" I gesture across the yard towards the Manager's barn, "All the things Davie Beaton was brilliant at?"

"Aye, but. . ."

"Well what I can do is nowhere near that kind of innovation. I'm a run-of-the-mill _technician,_ in charge of her first fully diversified farming concern. I didn't encourage participation from Lily because she's a woman and so am I – I did it because I've got to be her boss, but I don't know thing one about sheep!"

"What are ye sayin'? Ye cannae do it? Yet ye'ev come this far. . ."

"Oh, I can _do_ it – it's within my scope. So long as I have help, of course. But. . . well, you saw me today – I'm the last person to bring any sort of wizardry or flash to the proceedings-"

"Ha! Says th'lass that started the meetin' by showing us _five_ brand-new hybrids she jus' invented – plants she even means tae incorporate inta next year's crop plans, would'ye believe," says Jamie, looking across at us from behind the office's small corner desk, "If tha' isnae flash, what is?"

I roll my eyes, "Hybrids for potatoes, sugar beets, oats, rye, and soy beans, Jamie. If I couldn't deliver on those, I'd could hardly call myself a professional farm tech."

"Mebbe no', but Beaton couldnae have done it at all, now could he?"

I shake my head, "Oh, he could have. Maybe not as quickly as I managed to do – but making use of my more progressive training doesn't make me a more brilliant bio-engineer."

"Leoch doesnae need a more brilliant bio-engineer, mo nighean – what we need here is stable, sustainable farming practices, wi' jus' enough experimentin' tae keep us on our toes. Eh, Murtagh?"

Jamie says all this with bland conviction, as he carves away idly at a stick of kindling wood. His multi-tool blade shaves off neat, tiny rolls that fall with a soft 'pat-pat-pat' on the large sheet of old newsprint he has spread on the floor.

"Och, aye. Experiments like all those visitor's cars ye'ev been fixin' up. Wha's the story wi' all that, anyway?"

I smile, remembering, "Well, it just sort of happened the first time. A fellow delivered a whole flatbed of potted plants and greenery to the main house – decorations for Yule, I think - " Both Murtagh and Jamie nod, " - and when he went to leave, his engine was dead. I was just on my way back to work after lunch, and offered to take a look at it for him." I shrug, as though it was nothing, "It was the starter. And as it turns out, his truck takes the same starter as our two maintenance trucks here." I gesture at the door leading into the garage, "We have a lot of parts in stock, so there was more than enough to spare for him. I got my tools, and had the thing fixed up in less than an hour. I charged him cost price for the part and the Universal Wage rate for labour, and he went away quite happy."

"Aye, I bet he did," Murtagh grunts, sourly.

I smile, in spite of his frown. Geordie has been helping me understand the monetary system of this era, and I am well aware I gave the man a bargain. "It was old stock. Good to get it out of inventory. And I didn't have much else in hand that day either."

I lever myself upright, and go get a bottle of water from the small tea table over by the desk, "Anyway, since then, several people have come in from Cranesmuir, all with business at the main house, but while they're here, they ask me to take a look at their cars." I gesture, openly, "I don't mind doing it, they get a good deal, the garage gets to flush out old stock, the cars get fixed, and I get paid. I'd say that's win-win-win, wouldn't you?"

Murtagh harrumphs again, but this time I catch the gleam in his eyes that I missed the first time. He's not upset. On the contrary, he's _proud_ of me, but no force on earth would ever get him to admit it. I grin, with a genuine sense of accomplishment, and a thoroughly welcome rush of thankfulness. His approval has rapidly come to mean almost as much to me as Jamie's does.

"Speaking of Cranesmuir. . ." I say, bringing a cup of tea over for Murtagh, and sitting back down on the couch, "Annie and a few other girls have invited me on their day out tomorrow."

"Oh, aye?"

"Mm. Yes." I take a long swallow of water, "And I was wondering. . . would it be at all possible. . . that is, could I ask them to introduce me to Iona MacTavish?"

Murtagh blinks. "Ye want tae meet Iona. . . MacTavish?"

"Yes, the woman you told me about at the concert last week? You pointed her out during her dance with Dougal. You said she has the Sight."

Jamie looks up, sharply, "Now why would ye want to meet some'un like that, Sassenach?"

I shrug, attempting to be casual, "I'm curious, I suppose, but I also thought it might be a fun adventure to have with the girls."

" _Iona_ MacTavish, ye say?" says Murtagh, an odd look in his eye, "From Cranesmuir? An' I pointed her out tae ye? At the concert?"

"Yes. . ." I say, suddenly doubtful.

"Lassie, there isnae anyone livin' in Cranesmuir by that name, and there hasnae been for the last four years we've been here."

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. The low murmur of voices and clang of tools from the garage echo in the suddenly profound silence.

"There's a _Fiona_ MacTavish," Murtagh muses, "An' she _says_ she has the Sight, aye, bu' then again that may only be her fancy – gi'en that all she's evar Seen was that auld Jordan Whyte had better not plant his south field in the dark of the moon – which isnae bad advice, a'coorse, but any'un wi' half a brain might'ha towld him the same, an' no mistake."

"O-oh," I manage.

"An' besides, if auld Fiona was at the concert last week it's the furst I've heard of it. She doesnae like dancing in general, an' dislikes the Cuckoos on principle. An' she wouldnae be seen dead dancin' wi' Dougal, t'auld spitfire!"

"Oh." I say again.

"Are ye shure it was me towld ye of this Iona MacTavish?"

"Utterly certain." I push through my astonishment, and cast my mind back to the scene in the Great Hall, "She was a short woman, with long brown hair. You said she was always telling people their fortunes, whether they wanted her to or not, and that made some people avoid her. You said she was right about things with the Sight that even that wasn't usually right about, and sometimes she would offer to change strange things about people's pasts – like their grandparent's names or place of birth – but no one knows if she ever actually managed to do so or not, because no one remembers there being any. . ."

I break off for a moment, in dumbfounded realization.

". . . changes," I finish, quietly.

Murtagh shakes his head, "Weel, tha's as may be, lass. I dinnae recall a bit of it. Bu' then, we neither of us ended that night entirely sober, so whoo's tae say we'er either of us rememberin' as we ought?"

Abstractedly, I roll my water bottle between my hands, "Yes. Quite."

And then he had said it was a good thing they don't burn witches anymore.

A shiver goes up my spine.

Yes. A very, _very_ good thing. . .

"Weel, I've a few things tae do before supper, lassie, sae I'll be biddin' ye good evening," he stands, straightens his jacket, and salutes me, all in one seemingly impossible motion, "An' thanks for th'tea."

I nod, and stand to see him out of the door.

When I come back, Jamie has put away his multi-tool, and the half-carved stick of wood sits abandoned on the corner of the desk.

"Sae what was that then?" he asks, quietly, but with a strange ominous undertone.

I tuck my suddenly chilly hands underneath my arms, "I. . . don't know."

He scoffs, sharply, a cold, keen look in his eye, "Aye, ye do, but ye'er afraid tae say. Dinnae lie tae me Claire."

"It's no lie!" I shiver again, and hold my hands tighter, trying to force some warmth back into them, "I have no idea what's going on. Not with that, anyway."

"Hmphm. Mebbe no'. But ye ken moor than ye'er sayin'." Idly, he taps two fingers against his thigh, "Can ye no' trust me wi' it, Sassenach?"

"It. . . isn't a matter of trust, Jamie, it. . . it's a matter of. . . impossibilities!"

Whatever it was that was cold and ominous in him melts suddenly, and he strides over to take me warmly in his arms. I cuddle into him gratefully.

"Now then, now then," he murmurs into my hair, "There isnae annything impossible about it, _that's_ sure and certain. One of ye is rememberin' wrong, tha's all. . ."

"Me, you mean."

I should say it petulantly, or at least somewhat regretfully, but with my arms wrapped around my very big, very warm boyfriend, and my face burrowed into his chest, all I can manage is mild disinterest.

"Nae, I don' mean that at all, mo ghràidh. Ye finnished the night three sheets tae the wind, if ye'el recall. . ."

I nod against him, and hold him just a little bit tighter, remembering.

". . . Sae is it all that unreasonable tae think tha' mebbe ye'ev mixed things up a wee bit? Remembered bits from other parts of the night an' shifted 'em? Granted that Murtagh's forgotten entirely, a'course."

I sigh, and shake my head, "That's not how my memory works, Jamie. Or at least it never has before. Getting drunk doesn't flip things for me, or mix them around, it only makes things blurry – and sometimes not even that much."

"Weel, ye'ed nevar had that exact combination of drinks before either – perhaps yer memory reacted in a new way?"

I chuckle a little, let go of him, and go sit back down on the couch. Jamie goes over to close the door between us and the garage before sitting down next to me.

"That's. . . a comforting thought, Jamie. Thank you for thinking of it."

He pats my knee, "Anytime, Sassenach."

"Now cut the bullshit and tell me what you really think."

He pulls back, surprised, "Wh. . . what I. . . ?"

" _Yes_ , Fraser! Do you think you're the only one who can tell when the other isn't saying everything they could?"

His jaw tightens. He knows I'm right.

He looks at me rather dubiously for a few seconds, "Ye really want to know what I think? What I _really_ think?"

"I think you'd be wise to tell me, yes."

His focus turns inward for a minute, and then he lifts the hand I have nearest him, cradling it in both of his, "Sassenach, I. . . I think it's _ye_ who has the Sight. No' any'un in Cranesmuir. Just ye."

It takes me a few long seconds to absorb the meaning of his words.

"M-me? Bu-but Jamie, _that's impossible_ – I can't predict the. . . the futu. . ." I trail off desperately, because I can, god help me, I _can_ predict the future. . .

"But tha's no' what the Sight is, mo ghràidh," he presses my hand a little tighter between the two of his, "The Sight isnae an oracle, nor a prophet's poem, nor a fortune teller's crystal ball. Fairground trappings – all o' that sort o' thing. Balderdash, th'lot of it."

I nod, shakily. It's not so far from what I have always thought myself.

"So?"

"So, the Sight isn't something ye _choose –_ if annythin', _it_ chooses _ye_. An' ye cannae choose when, or whear, or what about – it jus' happens. Ye see things. Things ye cannae understand or explain, sometimes, an' then sometimes things that seem sae real it's like they'er happening at that very moment. Bu' havin' the Sight means ye always see things from beyond barriers that the rest of us," he taps his forehead, "that the rest of us dinnae even ken are there. Barriers of time, of space, mebbe even of reality itself. Mebbe ye can See inta parallel universes sometimes, or the distant past, or, yes, mebbe inta the future. Ye can nevar tell which. An' ye can nevar say when it'll happen."

"So. . . you think that Murtagh telling me those things. . ."

"I think it was all a Sight vision, mo chridhe. Dougal dancin' wi' a woman that doesnae exist here, but mebbe she does, in the future. Or the past. An' Murtagh's voice tellin' ye a story that nevar happened. . . except mebbe it did, in a universe not our own."

"That's. . ."

That's a pretty wild tale, and not at all the sort of thing I'd normally consider for more than a nanosecond.

But then, traveling through time does tend to open up the mind to possibilities. . .

"Remember how ye said ye felt like a ghost for a minute after Gwyllyn sang the Skye Boat Song?"

I huff a laugh. Do I remember!

"A bit difficult to forget that feeling, Jamie."

"Weel, what if it was partly true, in a way? There was a. . . a power. . . in the music that night, Sassenach."

"Yes." I inhale deeply, "Yes, there was."

"Aye. A power the likes of which I've nevar felt afore. . . unless it was when I looked inta your eyes."

"Jamie. . ."

"Nae, listen tae me, Sassenach," he curls one arm around my shoulders, and pulls me tight to his side, "The night of the concert was only the first time I was _sure_ of all this, ken? I'd thought it a good possibility several times afore that, an' evary time 'twas because of those glowing, golden, glorious eyes of yours, mo nighean donn." He runs a finger down the side of my face, and lifts my chin, so I have to look at him full on, "Like living amber, more precious than gold itself. . ." He dips his head and kisses me, more reverently than I've ever been touched before, "An' more intoxicating than whisky, mo Sorcha."

We both drink deep, finding a blissful refuge in each other's lips.

I touch my mouth after he finally pulls away, still feeling the pressure of him against me.

"So. . . what was it made you sure, that night? What was different about that time than all the others?"

He smiles, reproachfully, "Sassenach, are ye goin' tae try an' deny what happened between us during Hotel California?"

"Deny? No! I just. . . haven't found a way to bring it up without sounding. . . well, crazy. . . and to be honest, until right now I didn't know for sure that you. . . that you had seen it too."

"Weel. _That's_ how I ken. I saw a plain of green grass, under orange light, and then a fairy forest, with an ancient power humming through the ground itself. An' then a well, deep and cold, but not dark, an' we fell out the other side, into a forest black as coal. But it wasnae burned. Then there was a mist, thick an' dark, and when it cleared, there was the sea. But no' like any sea I've evar knoon. This one was acid green and pale, and the rocks nearby were a sickly, leaden gray - as though everything in the entire sea was dead. An' then we dove – dinnae ken from where – down deep inta the water, and then deeper, beyond the water, through fire and stone, all the way through the earth. An' then there was grass an' golden light again, an' then Leoch, and Gwyllyn's voice. . . an' ye." He kisses my forehead, "An' I knew, annyun wi' power enough tae give _me_ a vision like that, hadtae have the Sight themselves. An' a moor powerful version of it than evan a Highland lad had evar heard tell of befoor."

And then he had dragged my willing self into a broom closet and kissed the daylights out of me. . .

"And all that. . . didn't _scare_ you?"

He smirks, "It was terrifying, Sassenach. An' glorious, an' exhilarating, an' tremendous." He pecks a kiss to the very tip of my nose, "A man could get lost in yer eyes, mo Sorcha, an' no' come back tae himself for two hundred years. . ."

He takes my mouth again, gently this time, and very slowly.

I don't know if I have the Sight or not. But it's as good an explanation as any. . .

And that means. . .

I don't have room inside my mind for everything that means.

"I'm scared Jamie," I breathe against his cheek.

"Aye. I ken." He strokes my hair, and holds me close. "The Sight isnae a blessing. A burden, more like."

I grip him tight, and speak into the crook of his neck, "I don't need another one of those. . ."

"Aye. But the only way tae live wi' it is tae carry it, mo ghràidh. An' as long as I'm with ye, I'll help ye carry it."

"Promise?"

He looks down into my eyes with all the dear, lovely devotion he's shown me these past weeks, concentrated and distilled into one piercingly sweet glance.

"I promise, mo nighean donn."


End file.
